And was torn apart, mixed up and put back together again, body not quite sure the reassembly had been done right, foot sliding away from a wobbling surface as she reached the stone chamber on the other side.
She staggered, feet not finding any purchase on the floor, eyes refusing to tell her which way was up or down, stomach twisting. Dimly she heard Orlis’ voice. Some sort of query.
Something solid smacked against her side and she put a hand out. Cold. Rough. Stone. A wall. Relief made her even more dizzy for a moment and she leant against the wall, breathing shallow and too rapid. Nothing was stable. Nothing was up or down. What she could see made no sense. Random colours and shapes. The only real thing in the world was the wall, stone cool against her forehead and palms, wall bearing her weight as of no consequence.
Orlis’ voice repeated a query, concern cutting through the distortion and nausea.
She could not understand the words but guessed the question. “Mirror travel.” Her voice was thin and too high.
“Try this,” he suggested, voice closer to her and much clearer.
A small object appeared before her face, eyes blurring then clearing a moment to show her a small flask, stopper out. She breathed in, pungent odour blurring everything again. She slid down the wall to a heap, spinning worse, stomach twisting, closing her eyes, fist against her mouth to stop being sick. The darkness behind her eyelids helped a fraction.
“Perhaps not.”
She thought he stepped back, sound of his boots loud on the stone floor, rustling in his satchel abrasive in her ears, then the soft sound of cloth told her he was kneeling beside her. She risked opening her eyes and found another flask, a little larger, held out. More cautiously, she sniffed the open top and almost wept with relief at the familiar scent of Erith tea. A few sips and her stomach settled enough that she was no longer in danger of throwing up.
“Thank you.” She handed the flask back and glanced up to find that they had an audience. There was the mage who had held the mirror open, Kester vo Halsfeld and a third of White Guard. Very highly ranked warriors, by their braiding. Heat surged up her face and the tips of her ears burned under her hair. All Erith that she knew of could step through mirrors without any ill effect. She normally managed to stay upright at least.
“You are the mage, Arrow?” the leader of the third asked. His face and voice did not betray much expression, but Arrow was used to reading the Taellan and her face burned again at the disbelief.
“I am. Greetings, svegraen.” She managed to get to her feet with assistance from the wall, and then bow without her head falling off. She considered that an extraordinary achievement.
“I am Miach.” He did not elaborate, but did not need to. Arrow’s knees wobbled and she nearly slid down the wall again. There was only one Miach. Head of the Queen’s own guard, a position he had held for longer than she could remember at present. Since well before the last incursion, a hundred years before. In the way of the Erith, he appeared ageless with unlined pale skin and pitch-black hair confined in elaborate braids, his uniform pristine. “We have had trouble here. The lady asks if you would investigate.”
“What kind of trouble?” Arrow heard her voice ask, before she realised how stupid a question it was. The purple band on Kester’s arm, and the purple braids on the warriors’ uniforms, the colour of Erith mourning, gave their own clues.
“Lady Teresea vel Fentraisal died earlier.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Arrow made another instinctive bow, Court manners folding around her like a familiar coat.
“The circumstances were unusual.”
“And your lady wishes me to investigate?” The effects of mirror travel were still with her, as once again she only realised after she had spoken how crass the question was. Miach’s lady was none other than the Queen herself.
“She would welcome your assistance. You have investigated such matters before.”
“Something like,” Arrow hedged. Other deaths, yes. Sent by the Taellan as a disposable tool, often not expected to return. She had never investigated of her own will, and never the death of a prominent Erith in the Palace at the heart of all Erith. And not when she had travelled from all that was familiar to the Erith’s heartland and was still not quite sure which way was up or down.
“We need to find Gilean,” Orlis objected, jaw and mouth set.
“We do,” Arrow agreed, turning her head to Miach and finding the warrior as grim-faced as Orlis.
“His room has been preserved. Those on watch have orders to let you both in.”
Arrow hesitated, torn between the Preceptor’s orders and the Queen’s command. Expressed as a request, it was nonetheless a command. It did not take long to decide which to follow first. This was the Palace, where the Queen’s word was law.
“I will go to Gilean’s rooms,” Orlis offered, following her line of thought more easily than she had. “I will not touch anything,” he added, in response to her evident hesitation. “We will meet later.”
“Yes.” Arrow took a step forward and wobbled, stomach and head still not reconciled after the mirror travel, putting a hand back on the wall for a moment.
“Come.” Miach gestured to the doorway. “The fresh air will help.”
She followed them in silence, steps small and uncertain, wishing as fiercely as she ever had before that she was invisible. None of these competent Erith would have reacted so badly to mirror travel, she was sure.
~
Her embarrassment was forgotten, sliding away like smoke as soon as they stepped through the door from the stone room, through the thick tangle of wards that protected the relay room, and out into the heartland.
Magic saturated the air and the earth, twining around her, a seductive call to her senses. There was so much magic she could smell it, the trace of burnt amber, rich and thick as caramelised sugar on her tongue. Power fizzed against her skin, raising static in her unruly hair which crackled around her head. Her wards sparked in a silver cascade, eyes shimmering in reaction, every nerve ending waking up. Some long-dormant part of her roused, an empty part that she had not been aware of before, fulfilled and filled by the presence of the heartland’s magic within her. There were echoes of the Taellaneth here, the sense of place that she felt when returning, multiplied a hundred fold. For the first time in her life she felt more Erith than outsider. She was light as air. A great laugh gathered inside, wanting to be let out.
Biting her lip to hold in the laugh was second nature, the slight sting widening her awareness and reminding her of the people nearby. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly, trying to find her balance, searching for the inner quiet that allowed her to perform magic.
As she reached for calm, there was a brush of something other against her wards. She tensed, her wards hardening, before she recognised the presence as carrying the essence of the heartland. Exuberant, more powerful than anything she had sensed in her life before, the great spirit of the Erith heartland swirled around her in the second world, too vast to look at directly, seemingly delighted by her presence. A bubble of invisible laughter surrounded her, echoing her own, a trace across her face, a bright counterpoint to the shadow world, all seasons all at once, with a trace of clear water, heat of summer air, trace of frost, scent of green.
She swayed on her feet in the first world, overwhelmed, and the presence withdrew a fraction, enough for her to find her balance and open her eyes, blazing silver.
“Apologies.” Miach’s voice was far away. He sounded sincere. “I forgot that you had not been to the heartland before. And arriving through a mirror. It must be a shock.”
The words floated in her ears, sounds meaningless, taking an age to make sense. She could not form anything to answer for several moments, still searching for calm, her heart now racing for another reason. Her control was fractured, her defences compromised. The words might not have made sense initially, but they reminded her that she was among the Erith, an inherently dangerous place.
&n
bsp; “Arrow, are you alright?” Orlis asked.
“Perfectly fine, thank you.” She gathered her wards in tight, wriggled her toes to remind her feet that they were on solid ground, damped down her power, closing her eyes briefly before opening them, restored to their normal grey with sparks of silver the only sign of the heartland’s effect a small smile tugging her mouth, a smile she could not hold back. “My apologies.”
Miach’s faint, answering smile surprised her and he shook his head at some unknown thought. In contrast, Orlis was frowning.
“I am not sure I should leave you,” he said.
“You should go,” Arrow contradicted. “We will get more done that way.”
“No harm will come to the mage under my care.” Miach’s promise was sincere, the weight of it almost visible in the air. This was the heartland, Arrow reminded herself. Words, which carried weight anywhere they were spoken, were even more powerful here.
Still, Orlis hesitated a moment more before bowing his head and heading off with quick strides, tension betrayed in the set of his shoulders.
“A fine young man,” Miach observed, “and will be better still when he learns some patience.”
Arrow bit back a smile at the assessment, partially agreeing. Patience was not one of Orlis’ stronger qualities. And yet, there was something endearing about his open curiosity, and she had nothing but sympathy for his concern about Gilean.
She said nothing, a long ago learned habit among the Erith, letting Miach and his third guide her away from the mirror relay. Kester was silent, still, a faint line between his brows betraying some emotion she could not read. And did not try to. The youngest Taellan was a mystery she did not have time to solve today, her chest still echoing with the pain of their last encounter.
After the overwhelming introduction to the Erith heartland’s power, the sight of the Palace itself was almost an anti-climax and Arrow was able to keep her feet, and her wits, as they walked.
The Taellaneth, naturally, had many paintings and tapestries showing the Palace which Arrow had found fascinating, intrigued by its contrasting architecture and beauty. However she discovered that even the Erith’s master craftsmen had only managed pale copies of the reality.
The Palace was not one building, rather it was a massive complex of buildings, added to over the centuries as different monarchs and their consorts added their own style. Barely half of the buildings were fully occupied, from what Arrow knew, and there were some that had never been used. The older, more tradition-bound Erith might like to say that their population had been decimated by the wars with the shifkin, lamenting the empty buildings of the Palace complex, but even most of the Taellan would admit that the Erith had never been a populous race, not like the humans. The Palace was not expanded for lack of capacity but to satisfy its monarchs and the Erith’s desire for beautiful things.
Seen with her own eyes, the buildings were extraordinary, constructed with the same skill and attention to detail that the craftsmen had brought to bear in the Taellaneth, and made in dizzying variety. Arrow suspected it could take many days to map the whole extent of them, let alone the insides. There were low, single storey buildings of dark grey stone, tall, narrow buildings of blond stone that gleamed in the light, structures two and three storeys high made of a mix of cream and red bricks arranged in elaborate patterns, and, nestled among the others, Arrow could see an enormous structure, larger than the Taellaneth main building, with several domed roofs in bright colours, deep azure, shimmering gold and pure crimson, that must be the heart of the Palace. Beyond the main building were tall towers, dark stone rising into the sky. Arrow tipped her head back to see the height of them and nearly lost her footing as she realised that some of the towers did not appear to end, rising into the sky and disappearing into the blue.
Catching her balance, she felt heat rising in her face again. None of her companions appeared to have notice her staring, or perhaps they were used to newcomers or recent arrivals falling over their own feet as they tried to take in every sight.
Dragging her attention closer to the ground, Arrow realised that, in true Erith manner, the buildings were set far apart with gardens between, the air saturated with the scent of herbs including the citrus notes that went into Erith tea, medicinal herbs a tart undertone. Even if she had been blindfolded and her magic stripped away, all it would take would be a single breath to know it was impossible to be anywhere else but on Erith lands.
The walkways were raked gravel, familiar underfoot after so many years treading the paths at the Taellaneth and finally grounded Arrow back to reality.
“Can you tell me what happened, svegraen?” she asked Miach’s shoulder. He and Kester were matching strides just ahead of her.
He hesitated, checking in his stride before glancing over his shoulder, face serious. “I would rather show you and let you draw your own conclusions.”
She nodded, frowning slightly when he turned away again. Now her brain was finally working again, she wondered with some apprehension what circumstances would lead the Queen to ask an unknown, exiled mage to investigate a death in the Palace, particularly when she had an experienced investigator close to hand. Miach’s dedication to his duty and his sharp mind, as well-honed as his weapons skills, were legendary among the White Guard. Highly unlikely that so competent a warrior would need outside assistance.
CHAPTER 5
The path that they were following led to the enormous building at the heart of the Palace, the building growing larger and even more impressive as they approached. Its pale stone walls were carved with complex symbols of the Erith, windows spelled so that the interior was slightly blurred. From what Arrow could see, the building had several arms extending out from a centre dominated by the glittering gold dome, which vanished from sight as they walked into the shadow of the building.
Miach led them to the end of one of the short arms and a pair of closed doors, clearly a secondary entrance. One of Miach’s third stepped ahead and opened a door. They entered a high-ceilinged single storey arm of the main building to a wide, straight corridor that Arrow thought might lead, eventually, to the gold dome. This part of the building was brightly lit by overhead skylights, the walls on either side hung with portraits, painted faces watching the visitors as they passed.
“I thought you might be interested in this,” Miach said, moving a little further down the hallway of faces, stopping at one of the smaller portraits. “The Lady Alisemea.”
Arrow felt her limbs stiffen but moved obediently after him, looking up at the portrait. It was as finely executed as all the others in this long hallway, showing an Erith lady seated by a window, turned as though the artist had called her attention from the outside so her face was partly cast in shadow. She had wide-open, deep blue eyes and creamy pale skin and, unusually for the Erith, blond hair that gleamed even in paint. Like many of the paintings along the hallway, the artist had not painted in the amber of her magic, the clues to her heritage in the lines of her face and the fantastical landscape beyond the window.
“Your mother,” Miach prompted, clearly expecting more from her than her silent stare. Beside her she could feel Kester stiffen, as though he had only just made the connection.
“Yes.” Arrow heard her voice clear and even and for one brief moment was glad of her service with the Erith which had taught her to keep calm on the outside, whatever turmoil was on the inside. Seeing the face, with no warning, was a shock and, apart from that, she could not track the feelings running through her. She wondered, as she looked at the painting, what she was supposed to feel. Apart from Gesser, who had taken great delight in telling her how far the lady had fallen from grace, no one had spoken the name directly to her. She had pieced together the details from what others said around her, the Erith often speaking over her head as though she did not exist. Once a great lady among the Erith, Alisemea’s name was no longer spoken, excised along with Arrow’s lineage.
Looking at the painted face, Arrow felt no ki
nship or connection. This polished and posed lady was as much a stranger as all the other faces on display. She did not look anything like the face Arrow saw reflected back at her from time to time. It was impossible to reconcile this beautiful, composed, young Erith lady, wearing her finery with confidence and familiarity, with the knowledge that this same woman had defied her House and her father, leaving as her legacy a mixed-blood, Nameless, outcast daughter.
“You have seen her likeness before?” the warrior persisted, clearly expecting more from her, puzzled frown drawing his brows together.
“No.” Arrow turned from the painting to face him. Watching that painted face hurt somewhere deep inside, a place long dormant. She needed time to adjust, to settle those feelings down again, and she was not safe here, or anywhere among the Erith. “There are no images of her in the Taellaneth or in her former House.”
“She was considered a great beauty,” Miach said, eyes travelling past her shoulder to the painted face. A shadow crossed his face. “She was a favourite of my lady.”
Arrow was speechless for a moment. It was more information than anyone had given her for years, and jarred with the taunts that Gesser had used. And now that she thought of that, she wondered why Alisemea’s portrait was here, in this gallery, on open display at the Palace.
“I know nothing substantive about her,” Arrow clarified, aware of Kester’s close interest, and some curious glances from Miach’s third.
“Surely your grandfather must have spoken of her?” And most surely a sign of how disturbed the warrior was, that he would ask such an open question. The Erith did not normally pry so openly.
“Seggerat vo Regersfel rarely spoke to me beyond the Taellan’s commands.” Arrow was proud that her voice did not shake, did not betray her shock that he would raise the matter or the renewed shame she felt. Within the Taellaneth her blood relations were never openly mentioned and she had been taught, many times, that her heritage was shameful.
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 60
