She had thought she might become lost again, in the maze of Palace buildings, but she could feel the mirror relay ahead of her, or perhaps she was being guided by the heartland which had, reluctantly, accepted her wish to leave.
The Naming scroll seemed to weigh her down, potent evidence of Seggerat’s lies. And others, too. How many of the Taellan had known she was Named? How many of the Erith who had bullied her at the Academy? Evellan? Seivella? Eshan?
Eshan must have known. He had been privy to all Seggerat’s affairs for so long, and had been a retainer in the House when Alisemea was alive. Knowing that Arrow was a full member of the House and not just adopted in, as he was, explained some of his resentment. Still, she could not find any forgiveness for him.
And the others. So many others. Those who had known, those who had suspected, and those who were too far removed that they had no actual knowledge. All conspiring, to various degrees, by their silence to keep Seggerat’s version of events true. An unNamed, bastard offspring, unwanted and discarded. The story woven by Seggerat required that she be grateful that the Erith had taken her in and trained her. Of all the things they had asked of her, she had most comprehensively failed to raise any gratitude for their care.
For access to magic, yes. For access to the world of spells, the lines of power, the wonder in everyday objects. That, she was grateful for. No human magician could have trained her as well as the Academy, and the ‘kin did not use magic in that way, so the only place she could have learned was among the Erith. Magic had been her captor, the oath spells woven into her blood keeping her tied to the Erith for so long. Magic was also her escape. The lines of a well-crafted spell. The harnessing of power few Erith could master so well. Knowing there was something worthy about her, even if it was simply her skill in magic.
But everything else had been a lie. Not unwanted. Not unNamed.
Fury sparked her to a faster pace, human-made boots striking Erith gravel with clipped, hasty strides. She barely saw the path ahead of her, stung to her core. Anger and the heart-deep sting of lost trust. Everything she had been told about her life was false. There was no abandonment by her parents. She was not unwanted. And she had two Houses she could claim access to and shelter from. Two of the oldest Houses among the Erith. Liathius House had faded over her life, its most famous son long gone, no other blood relative prepared to keep the House alive. But the Regersfel House would have to admit her. With the potent evidence of her lineage, they would not risk the social ruin of failing to support her.
A laugh, a bitter sound she had not heard from her mouth before, choked her throat. Social ruin. There was something deeply unsettling about the new knowledge that House Regersfel would have to take her in, that failing to take her in might cost them the respect of the other Houses. Even if she had only been an unwanted mixed-breed, she had seen every day in the Palace that there were mixed-blood people living among the Erith, some enjoying positions of responsibility.
No wonder Seggerat had banned her from the heartland. Even constrained by the oath spells, unable to act, she would have realised in moments that there were other people like her in the world. Other people who did not meet Seggerat’s high standard of purity.
And she was not just a mixed breed. She was a shadow-walker, something the Erith needed. A hard smile lifted the corners of her mouth. They might need her. She was certain she did not need them. Not anymore. There was the workspace waiting for her. And work. And a half-packed travel bag with maps and plans and a world to explore.
“Arrow!”
Miach’s voice. From the slightly exasperated tone, not the first time he had called her. She had been so angry she had forgotten the most basic rule among the Erith, to always be alert for danger. Earlier, she would not have believed Miach would harm her. For a moment, she wondered, not trusting her own judgement.
To her surprise, he was alone, the purple armband the only sign of mourning, everything else about him as pristine as usual, even the shadows of tiredness gone from under his eyes.
“You were leaving without saying goodbye?”
Something in his voice stopped the bitter words at the tip of her tongue. She swallowed, looked again, and felt an unwelcome prickle of shame. He may appear pristine, but there was a tightness to his mouth and a depth to his eyes that had not been there when she had first met him. Decades of close watch and protection for his monarch and he had lost her, and her Consort, within a day of each other. He deserved better from her than for her to run away.
“It seemed easier.” She hesitated. “I did not mean to be rude.” That was true enough. And she still wanted to move, to leave as soon as she could. She needed a period of calm and quiet. She needed a space of her own. The quiet of the borrowed workspace called to her, the clear requests of the shifkin nation that were easy to understand, easy to follow, and did not carry with them any of the tangled politics of the Erith. That was what she needed. Her feet moved, wanting to go. Even the nausea of the mirror relay did not make her hesitate.
His mouth twitched in a smile, with little humour in it.
“I can understand that. The last few days have been …” He closed his mouth firmly, jaw set. “But the relay will be kept ready for another half day.”
“I …” Her throat closed over. So much she could say, so much she wanted to say, and in the middle of it a wordless scream that she wanted to let out.
“Something has happened,” he guessed, voice sharpening, “another threat?”
Her laugh was more like a sob.
“No. No threat. I just …” She could not speak more, waved her hand in a meaningless gesture, and drew a breath in. “This is not my home, svegraen. I was here at the Preceptor and then the Queen’s request. Both expired. I should leave.”
“The exile.” His expression changed to comprehension. That was not quite what she had meant, but she did not correct him. “The Taellan have not yet had time to reverse that, and there are those who would still do you harm. Very well. Let me escort you to the relay.”
“That is very kind,” she began, and he cut her off with a hand wave.
“It is the least I can offer. I hope that, when the exile is reversed, you will visit again.”
“Perhaps,” she answered, not looking at him. Part of her ached with longing. There was something in the heartland that called her, perhaps just the echo of all that power and magic, just beyond her skin. Perhaps the greater part of her that was Erith recognised its homeland. And there was a vast world to explore here. The wonders of the Erith lands, the beauty of the wild, so unlike the shifkin’s home, everything that was Erith and everything that had been denied her until now.
Another part of her, in war with the first, wanted quiet and safety. There was beauty here, but also danger. And people who wanted to use her for their own ends. Even the heartland itself had marked her without her consent. Being used, her own wishes not consulted, was something she was heartily sick of, after fifteen years’ service to the Taellan. She had barely begun to explore what might be possible outside the Erith’s service. There was a whole world she did not know. The heartland might tempt her, but there were also vast spaces of shifkin lands, stretches of human-claimed lands and even neutral territories that all had their own wonders.
She found she could manage basic manners, though, as well as her unruly thoughts, although much of that was probably due to Miach’s easy presence, undemanding as he escorted her to the mirror room and bade her health before she left the heartland.
CHAPTER 23
The workspace was blissfully quiet, the building around it free of any other people. The wards around the building were settled, dormant but ready to warn her if anything approached.
She had managed to get out of the Taellaneth more or less under her own power, the nausea of the mirror relay countered by a healing potion from her bag. The entire Taellaneth had been quiet, the faintest echo of the heartland’s grief carrying through the scented air.
Now she was
back to safety. No one had tried to harm her for days. The slight shift and creak of the building around her was familiar, the workspace full of the pungent scent of a new coffee blend she had decided to try.
There was another set of ceramic pots in boxes under the workbench. The Prime felt that having a cleansing spell to get rid of surjusi taint was worth the expense of more pots. Arrow had not dared use any of the pots yet, deciding instead to review her notes from her previous efforts. She had the ingredients set out across the bench along with her meticulous notes of the quantities used in her previous attempts. Somewhere in the measures and the notes she hoped to find the answer that would let her capture the fresh green scent and bind it to a stable cleansing spell.
It would not be that day. Despite the peace, the quiet and the solitude, she was finding it difficult to concentrate. Her fingers kept straying to the mark on her cheekbone, which she could not feel at all but which was visible in the mirror, and stood out in second sight like a signal fire when she had checked. The basic cosmetics she had tried had not hidden the mark. Her eyes kept straying to the other workbench. Hidden from sight was a backpack ready to go.
She had returned from the heartland to find a letter from the muster’s lawyers, paper heavy enough to be used as Erith parchment, advising her that she had a share of reward money. It had taken several times reading through the letter before she had remembered the stolen goods she and Tamara had found by accident when chasing the human. So many days before. Apparently whatever had been in the crates had been hugely valuable, and the shifkin had decided to gift Arrow a share of the reward. She had been shocked at the sum provided. An enormous amount of money. More than enough for her to travel. Perhaps enough to buy her own residence in Lix. A modest one. But she had no desire to tie herself to one place just yet. The shifkin understood. At least, Zachary did, and his word was what mattered.
So, she had finished packing her bag. Basic clothing and equipment that she could carry with her. And tucked inside that, heavily warded, was the Naming scroll.
She was not quite ready to travel, wanting to finish this last task for the ‘kin, and had hidden the scroll away in the hopes that, out of sight, she could focus on the task. It was not working.
Even as she sighed and turned toward the scroll, the flex of the building’s wards, announcing a visitor, called for her attention.
She arrived at the front door of the building moments after the quiet knock, the camera view, inside the door, and the building’s wards, identifying Kester vo Halsfeld. She hesitated a moment before opening the door, an odd, uncomfortable, fluttering in her stomach. She had not said goodbye before leaving the heartland, which was probably rude, and after the happenings in the heartland, she was not sure what he might have to say to her.
He was dressed in his preferred day wear, a near approximation of a warrior’s day uniform, braids replaced by leaf patterns woven into the fabric, and carried a large, plain cardboard box under one arm. The box made her blink as it was clearly of human make, and went oddly with the Erith clothing.
“Good day, svegraen.” Her greeting sounded odd, too, even though Erith manners dictated that it was for her to speak first as the prospective host.
“Good day, Lady Arrow.” The word might be solemn, but there was a hint of humour about his mouth and eyes that somehow made her relax.
“Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you.”
No knowing what else to do, she led him back to the workspace and self-consciously tidied her clumsy notes into a neat pile, not looking at the other workbench, not wanting a reminder of their previous, awkward, encounter. If he remembered, he gave no sign, looking with interest at the large stack of papers and range of ingredients set out.
“An interesting project?”
“Indeed.” She opened her mouth to say more and then closed it. The Prime would probably not want his business discussed with the Erith. Frowning slightly, she wondered if she should have put the papers away completely. Or not let Kester inside the building.
“The ‘kin are keeping you busy.” His tone and manner were perfectly relaxed, no sign that he had spotted anything odd with her.
“Would you like coffee?” There, that was safe. Or apparently not as he tensed slightly.
“Perhaps in a moment.” He put the cardboard box on the now-bare workbench surface and she felt all the tension come back into her neck and shoulders, remembering another box. He looked down at the box as he arranged it carefully, parallel to the side of the bench, then looked up, amber bright in his eyes. “I began badly. It was not my intention to …” he bit his lip, a sign of uncertainty that made Arrow tense further. “There are rules of conduct. No.” He frowned into the distance, apparently trying to gather his thoughts, and Arrow gripped her hands together, hidden by the workbench surface, fingers sore with the force of her hold. “It would please me greatly to know you better,” he said at length, eyes returning to her face, “and to see where that might lead us.”
Arrow’s mouth was half-open, no sound emerging.
“And as apology for my clumsy beginning, I have a gift for you. With no obligation,” he added quickly. He gave the box a little push, across the bench, until it was closer to her.
Seizing the distraction, Arrow took her time opening the box, lifting the top from it, her fingers clumsy. A gift. Freely given. A rare thing, in her experience. She set the top of the box aside. There was fine white tissue paper inside and the unmistakable scent of leather. She peeled back the tissue paper and froze, fingers closing, tearing the paper.
A messenger bag. And not just any messenger bag. A replica of the one she had carried for so many years, the familiar weight at her side that she missed almost like a limb, the finely made Erith satchel no substitute.
She lifted her eyes up and found a faintly concerned expression on Kester’s face.
“It is as close as I could find to the one you had,” he explained, voice a fraction too fast, “and it seemed something that you treasured.”
“Yes.” Her throat closed again at the one word and she looked back down, one finger tracing the stitching on the front. She lifted it out from the paper, the rustle loud in the quiet space, and turned it over. New, but it felt absolutely familiar in her hands. Far more finely crafted than the one she had had, it would wear well. Her lips curved up into an involuntary smile, eyes filling with stupid moisture that she blinked quickly away. “Thank you.”
Kester’s answering smile made that uncomfortable fluttering start in her stomach again and she ducked her eyes away.
“If you have time,” he began, sounding far less hesitant than before, “there is a new exhibition at the sculpture garden. Apparently some of the human artists are quite good.”
“We will stand out a little,” Arrow answered, wry humour coming to her rescue. She was in human clothing, and could pass for human, but there was no mistaking Kester for anything other than pure blood Erith.
“I have a glamour.”
She looked up to find a tall human male before her, a subtle alteration of features that was still Kester, just altered enough to pass for human. It was not something he had casually come across. That had taken practice. He had taken time and effort to prepare for this visit, to consider how they might spend some time together.
She looked back down at the messenger bag, and the fluttering vanished into lightness.
Go into the human world with Kester. Explore the sculpture garden. Learn a little bit more about this warrior.
“I would like that.”
TAINTED, THE TAELLANETH - BOOK 4
CHAPTER 1
She woke to darkness, catch of her breath loud in the silence, overtaken by the deafening thump of her pulse. Her whole body was tense, reacting to a threat.
She sent her senses out, testing the wards she had set.
Nothing.
She sat up in bed, eyes useless in the dark, and tried again. There should be layers of wards. Around the buil
ding. Around the room she slept in. Around her.
Her personal wards flared, silver bright, blinding against the black and she blinked rapidly, drawing runes in the air with a fingertip. A spell to enhance her sight. The familiar shapes of furniture in the room became darker shadows. It was far into the night, almost towards morning, pitch dark all around.
Beyond her personal wards, nothing.
The building’s defences were down. She could barely trace where she had set the spells. Almost completely destroyed. In silence and secrecy in the dead of night.
Even as she slid out of bed, reaching for a heavy sweater to pull over her nightclothes, the faint trace of another magician’s wards slid across her senses. She pulled her own wards back at once.
There was someone else in the building.
Someone had taken down her wards while she slept and got into her space without waking her. It should have been impossible.
Whoever it was had come through the best wards she knew how to prepare with minimal alarm, and no damage to themselves. She silently cursed the human laws that prevented a more active deterrent in the wards. As it was, her wards should have showered the intruder with static magic. Uncomfortable but not harmful. And clearly no deterrent.
She shoved her feet into her boots, pulling the sweater on and reaching automatically for her messenger bag only to remember she had left it in the workspace, on the hooks by the door along with her coat. The sword lay on top of a chest of drawers, its spells quiet. No surjusi. That was something. After another pause, her breathing loud in the quiet room, she left the sword where it was. She had her kri-syang, a mage’s silver blade, strapped to her forearm already.
Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set Page 85
