“They are being most helpful,” Kallish said, eyes narrowing.
“They want the truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death,” Arrow said flatly.
“And the Erith do not?” the warrior challenged.
“The Erith want any possible incursion stopped. It is not the same thing.” Arrow turned her attention back to the map as Xeveran returned to update his captain.
“You do not approve?” Kester asked.
“Any incursion needs to be stopped,” she agreed, stomach twisting, “but simply stopping it will not tell us how it has happened, or why, or allow us to learn how we might stop it from happening again.”
It sounded logical in her ears. She hoped the cadre could not tell that her insides were churning in fear, memories of snapping bone and the careless power of the rogue too new in her mind. She wanted to go back to her room and hide. Or better yet, go somewhere else and hide, where the cadre would not find her, where no one knew her, where no one had heard of shadow-walkers, and no one expected her to defeat an impossibly powerful rogue. A shiver ran through her. Running and hiding sounded logical in her mind.
“Here.” Xeveran interrupted her thoughts before her feet could move, holding out one of the White Guard’s armoured coats. Kallish looked grim as she fastened her own coat. Not happy with her analysis, Arrow thought, but not necessarily disagreeing. She tried to keep her face calm as she shrugged the coat on. She had found the coats heavy and uncomfortable. As she fastened the coat and settled the unfamiliar satchel across her shoulders she wished again for her own, battered, messenger bag that she had not had time to retrieve, and that she had her own, warded clothing, however ripped and torn, rather than delicate, unprotected fabric of Erith clothing and the cumbersome bulk of the coat. Despite layers of cloth, she felt all but naked, and too aware of the possibility of more bullets.
~
The second cadre and Kallish’s junior third met them at the appointed place, the last place that any vehicles could be safely taken before the spaces between the trees narrowed too much. Exhaust fumes cut through the fresh, familiar scent of Erith trees, the warriors seemingly not disturbed by what most Erith would see as a violation, bringing human technology into Erith lands. The vehicles were left under watch of a pair of warriors from the junior third of the second cadre, Kallish clearly in control of arrangements. The main group continued on foot through the woodland.
Lower lying than Farraway Mountain, the trees were shorter, and a mix of species that Arrow was familiar with, many of them found in the Taellaneth grounds. Some retained their leaves, a blaze of green against dark trunks, others bare for winter and here and there she could see glimpse of the brilliant red-orange leaves of a healing tree, the leaves potent ingredients for healers’ medicines. The ground under the trees was clear of snow, but full of unexpected hazards to Arrow’s inexperienced feet. Tree roots snaked in hard ropes across the ground. Evergreen shrubs she could not identify clustered here and there, and various other plants that she had no name for gathered in what little space there was between the trees. She struggled to maintain her balance and resist the urge to glare as Orlis, clearly far more used to such treacherous ground, slid through the trees with the same ease as the White Guard.
“Focus on your feet, and let the guard worry about the surroundings,” Kester suggested as she nearly fell trying to look around her.
“Thank you, svegraen.” Arrow hoped her tone was not as ungracious as she felt, ear tips scorching under her hair.
“You have not travelled in the woodlands before?” he continued, seemingly intent on conversation. She recalled an idle and improper daydream from years before, wishing that the youngest of the Taellan would engage her in conversation. He had always seemed more interesting than the other Taellan, and indeed other Erith. The reality was awkward and unsettling. A bit like having the cadre around.
“No.” She set her jaw and tried to keep up with the rest of the group. She had travelled across Farraway Mountain in the company of ‘kin, who had been unendingly patient with her slow pace and frequent pauses. Here, among the Erith, more than one amber-tinted gaze was cast in her direction. The faces might seem unreadable, but Arrow had lived her life knowing she was barely tolerated by the Erith. Her face burned.
“Orientation is required for all war mages in training,” Kallish objected, a few paces away, skimming over the ground, having no apparent difficulty in dividing her attention between keeping watch on her surroundings, moving forward with grace, and monitoring the conversation.
Arrow said nothing, hoping they would drop the subject, most of her focus taken up with staying on her feet, a smaller part trying to test out their surroundings, scanning for signs of taint in the second world, or a trace of the Preceptor’s presence. Focusing was harder than normal as her muscles protested the effort and a small voice at the deepest part of her mind asked her why she was here. Why had she put herself in danger, again, for the Erith, who cared so little for her. Broken little mageling, the inner voice taunted. Find a place of safety. Hide away.
Another stumble and her teeth jarred, catching the inside of her mouth, drawing blood as she righted herself. The small voice gave a mocking laugh. She stifled it. She was here. Her legs were too sore to run and there was no good hiding place. She stiffened her spine, wondering instead how Neith vo Sena’s horse, with his delicate, priceless legs, had managed to run through this tangled undergrowth and across the uncertain ground without serious injury. But perhaps Erith horses were given the same sort of training that the White Guard, and, apparently, journeyman mages, received. She stubbed her toe on a hidden rock, jaw clenching again, and bit back a curse. Much more of this and she would rip open the fine clothing she was wearing.
“You did not receive orientation, did you?” Kester’s voice just behind her shoulder, pitched quiet to carry to her ears alone, startled her into catching her foot under a tangle of green and she stumbled again, biting back a curse. She was sure her whole face was burning, an unpleasant counterpoint to the bruising. He moved as silently as the ‘kin and with similar grace.
“It was not considered necessary,” she said through clenched teeth. Bad enough to have witnesses to her clumsy efforts. Worse still to have them remarked upon.
“Or combat training?” he asked, still in that quiet voice.
She managed a whole two paces without incurring any additional bruises and shook her head once, confirming his guess. He was close behind her and she wished she could see his face, judge his reaction. Being among the Erith always made her aware of her shortcomings. Poorly trained, poorly equipped for the environment, and lacking necessary strength. Carrying the weight of failure. She was not much use. Her face burned, damage stinging in counterpoint to her too-fast heart.
They walked a few more paces in silence, enough time for her to become acutely aware of the various bruises, old and new, that had taken up residence on her.
“Who was your sponsor?” he asked. The sponsor that every fifteenth cycle student was required to have, who was supposed to guide their student through the final year and prepare them for the Trials.
“The lady,” she replied, wondering what had prompted the odd question, then stopped abruptly, every sense going on alert, wards flaring.
Around her the White Guard and Orlis continued, Kester stepping past her.
“Wait!” She managed, opening her second sight. The Erith paused, sending curious glances her way.
“We are not at the null point yet,” Kallish remarked.
“Does she need a rest already?” A not-quiet-enough voice remarked a short distance away.
“What is it?” Kallish’s voice was nearer. Arrow’s entire attention was in the second world.
“Something is wrong.”
“Wards,” Kallish commanded at once. Plain wards shimmered into being in the second world, amber streaks rising in a dome above the group.
Arrow took a step forward, finding herself hampered by the unfamiliar satchel
, armoured coat, and her own clumsy feet. She came back to the first world enough to shrug off the bag and coat, ignoring Kallish’s protest, leaving the coat hung on a nearby tree, fetching chalk out of her bag and leaving it with the coat.
The second world did not make sense to her eyes, or any of her other senses. She had been near null points before; Hallveran was full of them. This was not the same. Rather than being a true null point, with a perfect absence of magic, the world around her was densely coiled and packed. Spell lines that shivered before her sight. Something was hidden. Waiting.
“What do you see?” Kester asked. In the second world he, like the other warriors, was a tightly packed cluster of power, alert but not worried. Orlis, by contrast, was a bright bundle of red, restless energy barely contained.
“Too much power,” Arrow answered, turning a full circle. “Svegraen, mestera ovail.”
The command had no easy translation in common tongue; a command for alertness, for battle-readiness. A command not given lightly. Her stomach tightened at what they might find behind all that spellwork. To her surprise, all around her the warriors moved without question or challenge. Bows were readied. Steel drawn. Warriors moved on silent, sure feet into a loose circle. The bright cluster of Orlis’ wards moved a few paces from her, far enough that they could both work but still be within the warrior’s guard.
The warriors who were circling her. Facing outward. On guard.
As they settled, Arrow remembered the other side of that command. When given by a war mage it told the White Guard to defend the mage. The mage would deal with the magical threat. The warriors would defend against the physical and lesser magical threats. She had just put herself in the centre of a ring of elite warriors, who would now give their lives in her defence, relying upon her to make sure their defence was not in vain.
The trust twisted her insides again. The bones of her hand seized in cramp, ribs aching in sympathetic echo, heart trying to jam itself into her too-tight throat. Breath short and rapid. The second world wavered. Her feet twitched, wanting to move, to run, a cry of protest lodged in her throat. They needed another mage. A mage who was not broken.
Something in the second world moved, reacting to the sparking wards and the contained energy of the warriors. A slender coil of darkness that she recognised. Everything stilled, her mind snapping into focus. That was why she was here. That darkness.
“Surjusi,” she bit out, “hidden by a concealment spell.”
“Battle wards,” Kallish snapped. The shimmer changed, wards thickening, providing a sliver of extra protection against the thread of darkness Arrow could see.
She reached for her sword and froze when her hand met empty space. Another page of that thrice-cursed book shivered inside her, something she could not catch unfolding in her mind, making her clench her jaw. On impulse she reached into her pocket and drew the torn shreds of the spell out, silver shining through the cloth, searing bright against the darkness as she opened the bundle. The threads of spell were twitching, waiting. Her lips moved, forming a basic mending spell and the sword sprang, fully formed into her hand. Whole. Brilliant in the second world. Too bright to look at, dwarfed as the darkness intensified.
The darkness must have sensed her attention, or perhaps it was reacting to the strong wards the warriors had sent up. The black rose, larger than she was, puffing up in challenge. The higher it rose the thinner the darkness, glints of daylight peeking through. A bluff. Her spine straightened. This was not the rogue. Too weak to pose a real threat. Challenge accepted. Her sword was in her hand, bright silver near blinding to look at in the second world. Two running steps forward, in a convenient gap between warriors, and she threw herself into the darkness, whipping her sword, shining and perfect, to one side, the tentacle cut off. A brief burst of power, and a much-abbreviated banishment spell, and the tentacle disappeared without a sound, leaving Arrow nose to nose with the warp and weft of a concealment spell that was drawn by an all-too-familiar hand. Her throat closed again, panic rising again. The rogue had been here.
The warriors had moved while she clamped down her panic, keeping her within their guard, steady and unwavering. She wished she had a fraction of their courage. But she could not let them down, having given the command.
“I am going to remove the concealment spell,” she told the gathered warriors, voice too high, sight wholly in the second world, the warriors coils of power around her, “be ready.”
“Mage,” Kallish acknowledged, a deep coil at her right shoulder. She thought that the brighter coil at her left shoulder was Kester, Orlis just beyond him.
She had no time to consider that she had two of the most formidable warriors in the current guard watching her back. The concealment was a near-impenetrable wall of spell threads. There was nothing of the Preceptor in this spell, though she could see a sliver of his power signature in the middle of the threads. She turned the sword, its blade barely there, and slid the length of it between threads, lifting slightly, testing the spell for traps. She moved along the spell, repeating the process at different heights, until she was satisfied that all that lay there was a concealment spell. Turning her wrist, she brought the cutting edge of the blade down in the second world, slicing through the threads of spell, then cut around in a rough oval shape, using her other hand to pull out the torn threads.
The spell fell away, replaced by a mass of darkness. Not surjusi. A tumbling mass of smaller things. Tainted creatures, shapes making no sense in the second world, simply snippets of energy too fast for her to identify, swarmed forward, in vast numbers, tens, then hundreds, eager cries filling the world.
Around her the warriors flickered, their bright wards dimming under the onslaught. Tiny sparks of light flew through the wards, cutting into the dark mass, Erith arrows deadly accurate. Some of the creatures fell, dozens more took their places.
Shoving her sword into the earth, drawing the kri-syang, Arrow sliced open one palm and called mage fire, throwing it in small, rapid bursts, mage fire sticking to the unclean magic it encountered, pulling down more of the creatures with it.
“Can you make a sheet?” Kester’s voice asked from the first world. He sounded calm, slightly out of breath. Glancing aside, Arrow saw he had moved a pace forward, careful to keep to one side of her, his form dancing in the second world, shimmering sparks of amber denoting his blades as he cut into the creatures.
“Step back. Everyone.” She called more mage fire to her hands. Her mind threw up a slew of objections. She had never done this before with mage fire. But she could send her power out in a sheet, she told her inner voice sternly, and pushed down her doubts, calling more power until she was blind in the second world. When she could not contain anything more in her hands she bound a banishment into the power and sent it out, shoving hard enough that her ribs protested, bright silver sheet slipping free with apparent glee, tumbling over the mass of darkness.
She lost hearing and sight for long moments, huddled to the ground, making herself a smaller target to avoid impeding the warriors. Her chest ached. She coughed, dislodging something from her throat. Coughing again, she spat on the ground, heedless of manners, and found her first sight returning. There was a hard grip on one shoulder, and the world was trembling.
The hard grip resolved into Kallish, and the trembling stopped when Kallish stopped shaking her, lips forming urgent words. Arrow shook her head, pointing at her ears, still deaf. The warrior brushed back hair from Arrow’s face, fingers coming away covered in blood, and turned aside, the warrior’s lips moving again. A silver flask was held in front of her. Both hands needed to hold it, small sip, taste of copper blood on her tongue. She rinsed her mouth and spat again, bright blood staining the earth until it soaked in. A few sips and her sight cleared, vague sounds returning to her ears. Whatever Kallish had given her was laced with restorative of some kind, power returning as she stayed huddled on the ground.
“Area is clear.” The words were muffled, but audible. Arrow glance
d up to find Xeveran reporting to his captain. Xeveran had a long rent along one sleeve, dark stain that had to be blood creeping into the cloth. The warrior was slightly ruffled, cheeks lit with silver, and Arrow frowned, looking at Kallish again. The warrior was also slightly ruffled, skin dusted with silver. Looking around, Arrow saw that all the warriors had some glints of silver on their clothes and skin.
“Can you stand?” Kester was kneeling in front of her, eyes bright with power, amber a sharp contrast to the silver dusting his high cheekbones.
Feet. Underneath. Knees. Unfold. Sword used as a crutch. After that it was easy. She kept hold of the flask, taking another few sips as her hearing cleared, ringing fading. Ribs ached as she tried to take a deeper breath and she pressed a hand to her side, using the recovered power to check her injuries. Broken. Yet again. Too much power shoved out. Something to be careful of in future. She tested the weight of the flask. There was plenty left, so she used the power she had recovered, sent it through her rib cage and forced the bones back together. There was a dull crack as the ends met, and a searing pain that had her back on her knees again, vision fading, until the healing took, and she could breathe.
“You are wounded, again,” Kallish said, disapproval radiating.
“Ribs again. They will hold.” Arrow breathed deeply, unable to suppress a smile as no sharp tug or dull ache met the movement. She got to her feet again and drained the flask, handing it back to Kallish. “My thanks, svegraen. That is a remarkable potion.” The warrior’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.
“Our young journeyman has his uses.”
“One of Gilean’s recipes,” Orlis confided, eyes wide, bright red and amber colour swirling with agitation. “Do you know what you did, Arrow?”
“What?” Arrow asked, realising that Orlis was also dusted with silver.
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 48
