Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  A few moments was all she needed to realise that the talking would go on all night, and that none of it involved her. She straightened slightly, intending to slip out of the room, and found Kallish beside her.

  “The spells in the library need taking down,” Arrow murmured, as quietly as she could manage. They might be crudely drawn, but the forbidden magic cast across the library’s ceiling could still be used.

  “Very well. Xeveran.” The one word was all that was needed to attach Xeveran and his third to her.

  They made it out of the talking room and into the entrance to the building before Arrow’s stomach rumbled, loudly enough that the warriors around her heard, lips twitching.

  “We will need-”

  “Food. We have supplies,” Xeveran confirmed as he escorted her out of the building. He sounded more cheerful than Arrow had ever known him. He must have seen the surprise on her face. “Things happen around you, mage, and it has been a very trying afternoon staying still.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Cleansing the library of the spells had taken far less time than putting them up, Arrow was sure, but it was still late into the night when she finished, the library as safe as she could make it. The work had been uneventful, much to Xeveran’s obvious disappointment. He and his third had to content themselves with playing with the constructs still padding around the room. Arrow found herself distracted more than once by warriors throwing balls of ripped parchment for the constructs to chase. They were a rare sight, Xeveran told her, and many of the White Guard had only seen them in training. The cadre that had been assigned to guard the library had been entirely superseded by the constructs and it would take the Palace ward keepers themselves to put them back to rest. When the ward keepers had time. They were busy shoring up the Palace’s structural spells, making hasty repairs to the building to keep it in more or less one piece until proper repairs could be made. No one was feeling any great sense of urgency, though, with the scent of death in every part of the building and outdoors, and the heartland’s grief an ever-present ache.

  Returning to the annex they found the main room still full of people talking, the tantalising scent of food curling out, overriding the scent of death. Dusty and tired, she did not want to step into a room full of high-ranking Erith, but Xeveran steered her that way.

  Apart from Xeveran’s third, who still looked a little battle worn, the other warriors had managed to somehow rejuvenate in the hours they had been away. Uniforms were crisp, faces unlined, eyes keen. Alert and ready for action. Gilean and Orlis were nowhere to be seen which meant, Arrow hoped, that they were resting. Noverian was seated at the head of the table, holding court with quiet grace, listening to the various pieces of information he was being given by the warriors.

  The jarring note in the room, for Arrow, was Kester. Dressed as a lord again, in understated finery, he was standing near Noverian, listening to the update Miach was providing, face grave.

  They glanced across as Arrow came across, and Miach held a chair for her, a few places down from Noverian and far higher than she had title to at any Erith table. She hesitated, but the growl of her stomach brought her to the offered place. Undurat had apparently been assigned to her care as he immediately brought her a plate of food and a tall beaker of what she hoped was plain water and not cooled Erith tea.

  “The Palace is quiet, everyone in mourning,” Undurat murmured, setting a plate in front of her. “The Taellan session is about to start.”

  Arrow paused, hand partway towards her mouth, and set the food down.

  The Taellan did hold sessions mid-of-night when the occasion required, and if ever there was a need it was now. The Queen’s death was a gaping hole in the Erith government, the uneasy balance shattered. The Palace might be in shock just now, but the Erith would be demanding answers soon. And guidance.

  And yet.

  Seggerat was dead. With that, Eshan lost his place as Chief Scribe. Between them they had held an iron grip on the Taellan and its proceedings for far longer than Arrow had been alive. Which left the question.

  “Who called the session?”

  “I do not know.” The warrior straightened, brow creasing as he looked across at Kester. “Svegraen?”

  Arrow watched as comprehension flickered across Kester’s face.

  “Unclear. The request was passed by Palace messengers. Miach?”

  “The messengers did not know who called the meeting.” Miach was frowning now, too, concerned.

  “Another trap?” Kester’s eyes gleamed. Arrow was certain that under the fine clothing there was body armour and an array of weapons. Still, the Taellan normally met in private, with no guards in the room.

  “A meeting would be an ideal opportunity to strike,” she said, getting up from her chair. Her knees shook a little, body heavy with the aftermath of using magic.

  “Sit. Eat.” Undurat put a hand on her shoulder, pressing her back down again, a casual gesture he would have used with any warrior under his care. She did not so much sit as fall back into the chair, face warming again.

  “Miach has selected the cadre to guard the room,” Kester told her, eyes meeting hers across the table, “and meetings are always warded.”

  Uncomfortable under the steady stare, which felt too intimate for the setting, Arrow dropped her gaze, staying silent as the warriors and Noverian completed arrangements over her head, starting to eat at Undurat’s prompt.

  She glanced up again as a third of White Guard left with Kester in their midst, an odd, dull pain in her chest along with a shimmer of apprehension. It felt wrong that he was going into almost certain danger, leaving her behind. That sense of wrongness bothered her. They had no claim on each other. None at all. And yet he had stood by her in danger many times. Perhaps that was why it felt wrong he was facing danger without her.

  He glanced back at the doorway, a quick look she did not think anyone else noticed, and she ducked her head back to her plate, caught staring like an ill-mannered child.

  “Here.” Undurat was back at her side with another plate of food. She had not realised she had finished the first one.

  “I do not think I have ever seen anyone eat so much,” Noverian said in wonder.

  Arrow froze, conscious of the stares from around the room. She had never worried about what she ate before, as it was usually barely enough to replace the power she used. Now her fingers clenched on the utensil, misaligned bones making her grip slightly awkward, and stared down at the plate of some of the finest food the Erith had to offer, and wondered if she should eat it.

  “You have not worked with many mages,” Kallish said easily, settling into a chair nearer Noverian, at Arrow’s side, and nudging Arrow with her elbow. “They need at least as much food as a warrior, often more.”

  “Power use drains us.” Gilean’s voice drew everyone’s attention to the door. Not resting, then. He had bathed since Arrow had last seen him, clothed again as a war mage with his light-absorbing cloak around him. Yet he did not look healthy, the bones of his face standing out in sharp relief, hands skeletal as he grasped the back of a chair before taking his place opposite Kallish. “And I would wager that Arrow has used a lot of power.”

  Noverian digested the polite rebukes in silence, pale eyes wandering across the room. Arrow’s attention snagged again, distracting her from yet another plate of food even as Gilean inhaled his first plate and started on his second.

  Noverian had been blind in the dungeon. She was sure of that. Covering it well in public, as any Court-dwelling Erith would. But he had commented on the sight of her food and, as the Consort’s eyes drifted around the room, she wondered. It was one thing to use low-level spells to make up for a loss of sight. There were plenty of Erith who had done so, many of them accomplished magicians. This seemed different.

  Orlis stumbled into the room, hair in rough knots around his head, and took his place beside Gilean. He looked marginally better rested than she felt, a touch of colour back in his face, the deep
hollows under his eyes gone.

  Watching under her lashes, Arrow saw a quiet glance between Noverian and Orlis and wondered just how much healing the Consort had required. And how Orlis had managed to restore the Consort’s sight. And whether Orlis knew he had done so.

  “Does the Taellan know you are alive, my lord?” she asked, sitting back.

  “Not yet,” he answered, ghost of a smile crossing his face.

  “We need to draw the conspirators out.” From the expression on Kallish’s face, she was looking forward to it.

  “When you have eaten, we should go.”

  “Go?” Arrow swallowed, hard.

  “We are going to surprise the Taellan,” Miach confirmed. Unlike Kallish, he was sombre, eyes still shadowed. If Arrow had to guess, she would say that surprising the Taellan had not been Miach’s idea. Noverian or Kallish, more likely. And the Consort impatient enough that she could not delay for another, badly needed, plate of food.

  Still, she had consumed enough to function, and had functioned on far less. Energy was creeping back into her body. She rose, ready to go, tracking Noverian’s eyes as they lifted to the point above her shoulder.

  “A war mage’s sword. Carried by a shadow-walker.” The Consort rose, a faint smile on his lips. “Truly a momentous day.”

  Arrow watched his back as he left the room in the midst of Miach’s cadre.

  “What is going on, svegraen?” she asked Kallish.

  “I am not quite sure.” The warrior rose, checking her weaponry with swift, professional attention. “Shall we go and find out?” That gleam was back in Kallish’s eyes.

  Gilean waved a hand from the other side of the table.

  “We will follow in a moment.” He glanced at Orlis, who was unusually silent. “Or perhaps longer.”

  “Not too long, old man, or you will miss the fun,” Kallish warned, striding towards the door with a distinct spring in her stride. Arrow shook her head slightly, falling in with Kallish’s third and the junior third as they followed. Xeveran and his third remained standing around the room. Waiting for Gilean, she assumed.

  ~

  Outside the bite of an early spring night made its way through layers of clothing, the sky above the Palace buildings full of the bright points of stars. Even though she had seen the stars here before, Arrow still found herself trying to make sense of the patterns. They were far, far from the Taellaneth, from Lix, and from everything that she knew.

  A curl of magic, a tendril of the heartland’s vast power, coiled around her, providing a touch of warmth as it lazily wandered through her. The vast spirit of the Erith lands lay just at the edge of her senses, quiet after the furious grief of the Queen’s passing, the thrum of sadness still carried in the ever-present scent of death. Yet under that was the fresh scent of growing and spring, the promise of continuity. Arrow nearly stumbled again, wondering just how many monarchs the land had seen pass, and what secrets it could share if it had a mind to do so. The curl of magic lingered a moment more, a gentle stroke of warm, brilliant amber against her cheek, before it left her, whole in her own skin, her own familiar silver power content inside, the newly familiar shape of the sword’s spells at her back.

  She had been distracted for the entire journey across the Palace grounds, the warriors keeping the group outside the buildings, cloaked in shadows, no alarms raised by the presence of White Guard within the Palace, Noverian concealed beneath a billowing, dark cloak that Arrow thought simply drew more attention.

  They were ascending the shallow steps to a grand entranceway that Arrow was sure she had not seen before, a pair of enormous wooden doors, as tall as a two storey building, standing open in traditional Erith welcome under a sweeping arch of pale stone. There were warriors inside, a full cadre with one third on each side of the entranceway, the final third standing in front of a slightly smaller set of doors that were firmly closed.

  The cadre came on alert as they entered, weapons raised even against their own kind, until Noverian stepped forward and, with a move that looked very practised to Arrow’s eyes, flung the cloak to one side. She tracked its movement as it slid across the stone floor to a heap against the wall. Lighter than wool. Silk, perhaps. The Consort had a flair for the dramatic. No one would make a silk cloak for any practical purpose. Too fine to provide any decent warmth. But it had billowed quite nicely as they had walked.

  No one else had paid any attention to the cloak.

  “Highness.” One of the warriors near the door gasped and knelt on the same breath, bowing his head. The others followed suit until Noverian stood, with only Miach close to him, the Consort’s face unreadable as he looked around.

  “The Taellan is in session?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The warriors rose in a single move. Arrow could not see who had spoken, the entranceway lit only by a few glimmerlights, making it difficult to see.

  “Open the door.”

  “We have orders, my lord.”

  Noverian did not bother arguing, just glanced at Miach who in turned glanced at Arrow. She called some power and went forward, Kallish and her third flowing around her as though they did this every day, until she reached the doors. The warding spell bore all the marks of the Palace ward keepers, immaculate spellwork shining in her second sight. She broke it with a spoken spell, the echo of the break carrying into second sight, taking an alert to the ward keepers. Whatever was left of the Palace guard, after Miach putting so many cadres to work, would arrive soon. It was not subtle, but, with that pile of silk and unnecessary drama lying next to the wall, she did not think that Noverian wanted subtle. She put a hand on the unwarded doors and pushed, power behind her move, so that the doors swung open silently, moving out of the way so that Noverian could make the grand entrance he was no doubt planning.

  The room inside was the most ornate that she had seen in the entire Palace, including the Receiving Room, glimmerlights reflecting from gilding on the domed ceiling above, mirrorglass panels in the walls reflecting back images of the faces of the Taellan, startled by the intrusion, most rising to their feet from around an oval table, the chair at the head of the table, where Seggerat would normally sit, empty, a thick band of purple silk draped across it in memory of his death.

  The room’s atmosphere vibrated with the force of the argument the Taellan had been having. Arrow knew them well enough to recognise the signs. A flushed face here, tight mouth there, hands clenched together in sleeves at another chair.

  Apart from Kester, who surely must have been expecting them, the only person who did not seem shocked was Eimille vel Falsen. The eldest among them, the lady had not risen from her seat as the doors opened, simply turning her head to see who was coming into the private meeting. Recognising Noverian, her eyes widened a fraction, and she rose then, taking a step towards the Consort.

  “Old friend.” Her voice, warmer than Arrow had ever heard it, cut through the babble from the other Taellan, silencing them all. “One bright moment in these dark times. It is so good to see you.”

  “And you, Emmy.” Noverian’s mouth relaxed into a smile and he tipped his head in her direction, eyes travelling around the room, face tightening again to a closed, unreadable expression as he examined the Taellan.

  Arrow’s mind caught on the nickname, an oddly childish one for the dignified lady that she had always known, but she followed the direction of Noverian’s glance and saw the bows from the Taellan, some considerably slower than others. She took note of the ones who were slow, and was confident that Miach and Kallish were doing the same.

  “What is it doing here?” Gret vo Regresan. Predictably. Not even respect for the Consort overriding his fury at Arrow’s presence. “It nearly killed my son!” His voice echoed from the mirrorglass panels.

  For a moment the world slowed and Arrow realised, once again, far too late, how vulnerable she was. In the middle of Erith lands, in the Palace no less, surrounded by the most powerful Erith alive. With Evellan’s order to find Gilean fulfilled, some coul
d argue she had no good reason to be here. Her throat closed, pulse racing. Inside, the silver power coiled, ready to be used. The shadows were only a few moments’ work away. She gave a quick glance to either side, judging how close Kallish and her third were, dismay twisting her stomach as she realised how thoroughly she was pinned. It was doubtful she could make the shadows before one of them got hold of her. All it would take would be an order from Miach or Noverian. Her mouth was dry, body tense.

  “Your son was a willing host for a surjusi, as I recall,” Noverian’s voice, calm and sure, cut through Arrow’s panic, “and in more danger from that than the Lady Arrow’s blade.”

  The constriction on her chest eased and she could breathe again. She looked across to Noverian, standing only a few paces away, the Consort’s gaze hard on Gret’s face.

  “Lady Arrow.” Gret sneered, the force of his disgust a familiar jibe. Arrow was disappointed in herself at how much it still hurt, after years of his disdain.

  “The only shadow-walker alive,” Eimille said, her voice returned to the dispassionate, cool tone Arrow was more familiar with. The lady glanced back at her fellow Taellan, face hidden from Arrow. Whatever Gret saw made him clamp his jaw shut in fury.

  “Will you sit?” Eimille turned back to Noverian, gesturing to the table. Apart from Seggerat’s empty chair, there were two other empty chairs in the room. Both gilded to match the room, one slightly larger than the other. Monarch and Consort. In the centre of their council, on either side of the table.

  Noverian’s formal expression slipped as he let out a long breath, grief and resignation combined. He moved slowly around the table, reluctance obvious, to the larger of the chairs, and took his seat. In the Queen’s chair. The Taellan bowed as one, more than the few faces pale, and more than a few tears showing. Arrow felt an answering stab of pain in her own chest. The Queen was dead. Until the Erith chose their new monarch, by whatever tortuous process they had devised, the Consort was acting Regent for the Erith people.