“You know everything it seems.” The lady’s laugh was bitter.
“Barely anything. You and Lord Evellan have withheld all answers.”
“You must stop him.”
Jaw clenched, Arrow took a step forward, frustration lighting her eyes to pure silver. The lady’s head jerked up, eyes wide, and Arrow froze, seeing a sliver of that odd purple shade slither through Seivella’s normally violet eyes. Observing a moment more, Arrow let out a long breath.
“Not just tainted. You are possessed.” Unlike Evellan. Arrow wondered what Seivella had done to deserve the possession. And just how powerful the rogue magician was, to have forced possession on one of the most capable magicians the Erith claimed. Second sight did not work well here, but she could just make out the traces of the lady’s personal wards, clinging in broken fragments around their maker, the tell-tale signs of force used to break through defensive spells. The lady had not been willing.
“He made me.” The lady’s voice was a tiny thread of sound, a plaintive cry.
“How long ago?”
“Twenty days.” Seivella blinked, the flickers of odd colour in her eyes sparking again. Arrow tilted her head, considering the Erith more closely. The lady had not shown sign of taint in her previous attack.
“You should be drained and dead by now,” she commented coolly, considering a few moments more. “You have managed to protect yourself somehow.” Another piece of knowledge she did not have, and which Seivella was not going to share. Holding back a curse that she could not see the extent of it in this world, Arrow extended a hand. “Come, there are others with questions.”
“You are not afraid?” The lady’s voice held a darker tone, her eyes fading to deep purple, almost black.
“Of you, little spirit?” The surjusi holding Seivella’ body was far less powerful than the ones she had encountered before. Arrow sketched a quick hold spell in the air with her hand. “You are barely grown. Come here.” She beckoned, hand held out, the slender silver thread of the holding spell tying itself around Seivella.
The lady’s body came forward in an uncoordinated confusion of individual motions, a flash of lighter purple in the lady’s eyes showing her own struggle for control.
“Here.” Arrow grasped the lady’s hand, finding the flesh burning hot and skin flaking, rough against her palm. The darkness in the lady coiled, poised to strike. Arrow moved, tugging the lady off-balance, the spirit too unused to holding control to stay upright. Arrow drew her sword and shoved the tip of it, without grace, into the lady’s shoulder, above her wounded arm, sending her own power through the blade and into the lady’s body along with the banishment spell. The lady screamed, a sound her throat would not normally be able to make, writhing around the blade. Arrow withdrew the sword and darkness poured out of the lady, vanishing into the air.
Seivella tumbled to the ground, making no effort to check her fall, hitting hard enough that the smack of her head drew a sympathetic wince from Arrow. Satisfied that the surjusi was gone, the banishment spell working equally well in the third world, Arrow put her sword away and gripped the wrist of the lady’s whole arm again, hoping that this latest experiment would work.
Tugging hard, for Seivella was of equal height and perhaps a shade heavier than she was, Arrow moved backwards across the rough ground, opening the way back into the first world as she did so.
She came back into the first world to a confusion of bodies, and a sharp cry of discovery. The lady’s body was still half in the shadow world and she pulled harder, dragging the lady and her tattered cloak all the way through.
Her feet caught on something and she stumbled, falling in an ungraceful heap beside the lady’s prone, silent form.
“The lady.” Orlis’ voice sounded and a moment later the journeyman knelt beside the older magician. “She is injured.” Arrow settled onto her knees and looked the lady over. There was a sluggish pool of blood gathering at her shoulder, more blood gathering in the ground under her head, and the cloth wrapped around her arm was stained with yet more blood.
“I stabbed her shoulder,” she told Orlis, his eyes widening further, mouth half-open.
“You are becoming very violent,” the journeyman commented.
“She was tied at the time?” Kallish asked sourly. “The lady is most proficient with weapons,” the warrior added at Orlis’ stare.
“She was not herself at the time,” Arrow answered through gritted teeth.
“Tainted?” The warrior dragged Orlis back, drawing a weapon.
“She was possessed.” Arrow put a hand over Seivella’s wrist, checking her pulse. It was strong and regular. She was in no danger of fading just yet. “And now she requires care.”
“A third will take her to the healers,” Kallish proposed. Arrow caught the tiny twitch of the lady’s brow and realised that, despite her wounds, she was most likely awake. Opening her mouth to tell Kallish she caught a slight nod from the warrior, and relaxed, trusting the White Guard knew what they were about.
“Did she tell you anything useful?” That was Kester, waiting patiently behind Kallish.
“Hardly anything,” Arrow said, hearing the bite in her voice, staring at the lady’s face. Seivella turned her head, eyes opening. Her gaze was not quite focused, but the light violet shade was the lady’s own, no darkness or purple remaining.
“You have to hurry.” Her voice was soft, for Arrow alone. “He is not going to wait much longer.”
“Wait for what?”
“He has waited too long already. He thinks.” The lady’s dry lips cracked again, fresh blood coating her teeth as she grimaced. “Go.”
“Go where?” Arrow asked, leaning forward. She was barely aware of Kallish standing her warriors down, forming a loose circle around her and Seivella.
“Where do you think?” the lady answered.
“That is no answer.”
The lady simply turned her head, refusing to speak.
“And why should I act?” Arrow murmured, close to one perfectly formed Erith ear, anger washing through her. “Why should I clean up the mess that you and Evellan have created? For the good of the Erith, who would had killed me in a moment these past years? For the kindness you have shown me?” The bitterness was acid unleashed, pouring over the still figure.
Seivella’s head turned back, narrowed eyes glinting violet and the faintest trace of amber.
“Because you are the only one who can. Because it is the right thing to do.”
Arrow straightened as though stung, getting to her feet, and pacing away.
“Take her away,” she told the warriors. They took one look at her and obeyed without question.
“What did she say to you?”
“Orlis.” Kallish grabbed the over-eager youngster’s arm and pulled him away. “Learn the value of silence.”
“But-”
“Silence.”
Arrow glared after Seivella as she was borne away among warriors, eyes glowing silver until Kallish deliberately stepped in her path.
“She is under guard. Not going anywhere.”
“Do not be so sure.” Her jaw was frozen, lips stiff, bruised side of her face aching from tension. “The lady is one of the most skilled magicians among the Erith.”
“But not the most powerful,” Kester observed.
“Power counts for little unless one knows how to use it,” Arrow snapped back.
The right thing to do. For the first time in years she was conscious of a wish to hurt something and found her fists clenched. The damaged fingers of her right hand would not close, the echo of Gesser’s laugh as he broke one bone after another ringing through her mind. The right thing to do.
“Go wait by the vehicles. We will be along soon.”
Arrow barely registered Kallish’s quiet command, or the soft protests that followed. Orlis, and Kester, not wanting to go. She moved a few paces away, back to the clearing, facing into the forest, and tried to calm the rage that threatened to take over.
The right thing to do.
She shoved her hands into her hair, careless of the dried blood crusted under her ears, the bits of leaf and twig she had managed to collect while blundering through the forest and held on. For the first time in a long time she remembered Nassaran, the old hermit who had raised her before she joined the Academy. The gentlest soul she had ever met, he had taught her to seek the good in everything. It had seemed a far better way to live than many examples around her. She had tried to follow his guidance. Right now, she could find nothing good to think about Seivella, well aware that the lady was seeking to manipulate her, even wounded. For a moment Arrow wished she had stabbed the lady more deeply.
A long, painful breath in and out, bruising across her body unwelcome reminders of the days past. Her face was wet and she impatiently wiped tears away. The forest was in front of her, a vast tract of woodland that the White Guard rarely patrolled. It was tempting to walk into it and vanish. She had no ties to the Erith any more. And Zachary might understand if she disappeared.
Even as she thought that she realised she was wrong. The Prime had never ducked away from anything difficult in his life. Hiding from the truth was an Erith strategy, and one she would not choose to follow. She was tired of concealment and half-truths and outright lies. Nothing was ever transparent among the Erith, motives always under question. Which might be an amusing diversion when one was an Erith lord or lady, with the support of one’s House. But was deathly serious when you were an oath-bound servant, and when your life was in the balance almost daily. From a distance the Erith were beautiful. Up close they were self-centred and petty.
Scrubbing her hands across her face again to get rid of some of the dirt and blood, she turned around to find the clearing empty, gathering dark overhead signalling another night on its way, Kallish standing at parade rest a short distance away, the warrior’s face calm, keeping watch on their surroundings as she waited.
Arrow took a step towards the warrior and her temper flared again, the new satchel shifting uncomfortably on her shoulder.
“There is something I need to collect.” A small bundle of possessions in her hotel room, and the messenger bag that was moulded to her form from years of wear.
“As you wish.”
~
Several hours later Arrow stabbed her finger for perhaps the tenth time and swore under her breath. The strap of her messenger bag was badly frayed, so much that she was not sure it was usable. Attempting a repair showed her just how poor her needlework skills were.
Through the open door of the workspace the warriors were talking quietly. She had reported the substance of her conversation with Seivella, in particular the identity of the rogue, and had struggled to maintain her calm under the disbelief, and the instinctive horror that such a thing was possible, that someone who had been within a condemned property had somehow survived the fire and turned on the Erith. The warriors did not want to believe it. Looking around the expressions of dismay, Arrow could not help wondering how many of them had lost relatives in similar circumstances. Or how many residences they had burned, knowing there might still be people alive inside but unable to risk the spread of taint. The burning was one of the Erith’s darker secrets, something done out of fear and necessity. And because it was the right thing to do. Or so they had thought.
Kallish had made her report through a communicator disk and had faced Whintnath’s sputtering outrage and disbelief with a calmer face than Arrow would have managed. Whintnath was not prepared to take Arrow’s word, wanting to wait until Evellan and Seivella were well enough to be questioned.
The conversation among the warriors fragmented after that, faces grim. Arrow had retreated to the workspace, wanting a small amount of space and quiet.
The warriors had resumed their patrols, most remaining in the kitchen, talking quietly, the occasional phrase carrying to her. In one of those odd moments she heard a quiet sound from Orlis.
“She is not happy we are here.” The journeyman sounded sad, drawing an answering ache from Arrow. She was familiar with being unwanted, and wished she could tell him otherwise, could give him a lie.
“She is safer with us here,” Kallish answered, tone not allowing any argument.
Arrow hid a sigh. No one had really cared if she was safe or not since her very early years. In idle moments she had wondered what it would be like to have someone care, or to have a cadre assigned to her, as with most war mages in the field. The reality had her knuckles white, too many different personalities inside a space she had thought, for a short, blissful moment, was hers alone.
Another stab of the needle drew blood and she abandoned the project, swallowing another lump in her throat at the reality of the nearly-torn strap. The bag was battered, the leather scored and stained, and yet she could not let it go. Eyes blurred, she set it to one side and pulled out Evellan’s papers and the thrice-cursed book again. At least she could read. And study, a very necessary matter if she was to make any sense of the shadow world or face the rogue again.
Just the thought of the rogue made her breath quicken, heart thudding too fast and loud, every part of her wanting to run and let someone else deal with him. She had completed her service. Let someone else do the tasks the Erith found unpleasant.
Among the papers she found the communication device that Kester had spotted. The magic was dormant, but, now that she knew what to look for, held traces of the rogue’s signature. It did not appear dangerous, but she took some satisfaction in dismantling the fragile object, unravelling the spells so that there was nothing left of Seivella or the rogue, before settling to study with a marginally calmer mind.
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 h
ad 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.
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 50
