Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  A static shock of magic passed through Arrow as they went under the archway. A silent alert system, letting its maker know that someone had entered. Whoever it was had no need of doors. By the tightening of jaws, the others had felt it too.

  As planned, they stepped to the side of the archway as soon as they were through, pausing to take stock.

  From the outside, the fortress had seemed to be a thick ring of walls, several storeys high and several rooms wide, around an empty interior. That impression was confirmed. Looking ahead, the middle of the fortress was simply bare, blank space, dotted here and there with piles of ash marking dead demons. Arrow had a momentary sense of familiarity. It looked like a space for tournaments or combat. The Erith conducted their Trials in such spaces, too. Specially created arenas, with rings of spectators round about, the participants in the centre. The comparison brought back a vivid memory of her own Trial. The scorching heat of the sun, the grit of sand in her eyes, the unearthly shriek of a baelthras. The terror.

  She shook off the memory and brought herself back to the here and now. Demon realm. It may be fatal to be distracted.

  The others had not noticed, too busy taking stock of their surroundings.

  To either side of the archway, corridors opened up within the walls. No doors again.

  Iserat beckoned and they followed into the right hand corridor.

  There did not seem to be any rooms on either side, Arrow saw, just blank, solid walls. The corridor was huge, at least two stories high and as wide as it was tall. There was nowhere to hide if they came upon any demons.

  ~

  “What is that?”

  The question came from one of the others, Arrow was not sure who. She turned to look and saw nothing. Turning back to see who had spoken and ask them what they had seen she found herself alone in the corridor. She turned a full circle, pulse thudding in her neck. Alone. No sign of the others. She tried sending her senses out. Nothing.

  “You’ve been killing surjusi, I see.”

  She jumped at the voice.

  A fraction later, Saul stepped out of shadows. He still wore the appearance of an unassuming human male, sandy haired, fair skinned and freckles dusted across his nose and cheekbones, but his eyes were different. The blue had darkened.

  “They were trying to kill me.” Arrow’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach for her sword. She forced herself to remain still, to keep her wards down. Surjusi realm. Surjusi fortress. And a not-human who had appeared too soon after they had entered the building to be coincidence.

  “That is their nature,” he answered. There seemed genuine regret in his voice.

  He stopped a few paces away, sleeveless, floor-length robes held at the waist by a thick, leather belt, bare arms corded with muscle, posture deliberately relaxed with thumbs tucked behind the buckle that bore a curious design that Arrow’s eyes could not trace. The outfit was not the one he had been wearing before. It was also familiar, although she could not remember where she had seen it before.

  She said nothing for a moment, wondering what he might say or do, and wondering, too, where the others were. Gone between one step and the next, with no fuss, no noise, no residue of magic or wave of power.

  Before she could speak, Saul tilted his head again, gesture reminding her of the last time they had met. He was listening to something she could not sense or hear.

  “Ah. Duty calls. Try not to get yourself killed. We have much to discuss.”

  He took a step to the side and vanished before her eyes. Arrow took a hasty step forward, intended to examine the spot, and her sword flared a warning.

  She drew it in a move fast becoming second nature and turned to find an enormous surjusi bearing down on her, filling the entire space of the corridor with its bulk, its vast, formless mouth open, bottomless black showing.

  The sword moved, sliced through the black, and the demon crumbled, bright sparks of Erith power rising up. Brighter than any she had seen before.

  Breathing hard, she stared at the sparks, fingers clenched around the sword hilt, wondering if they were remnants of the six. Or, worse, Kester.

  With Saul gone, she tried to find them again. Nothing.

  She stood in the corridor for a long moment, eyes straining in the dark, breath rapid and loud in her ears, bitter taste in her mouth. There would be more surjusi along soon, naturally. The quantity of Erith magic would draw them. So she should move. But where.

  Dungeons, she remembered. They had speculated that Serran would be in the dungeons, and that was their goal. If she found the dungeons, she should find the others, at least. And the dungeons should be down. She needed to look for stairs.

  ~

  The fortress seemed twice as big on the inside as it had looked from the outside. She had been walking for what felt like days, hyper alert, expecting Saul to appear again. But he did not. And no other surjusi appeared.

  There was also no sign of the others. Not the six. Not Kester. Not Dorian or Juniper. Not even the backpack-carrying humans who had come through the portal first.

  At great length, after turning along several corridors that all looked the same, an opening appeared at one side, with stairs leading down. Her feet were taking her down the stairs before her mind had time to catch up. The dungeons were down. Or so she thought.

  The guess proved right. The stairs descended for a long time, ending in another wide corridor. This one was different. It had an end, just visible in the far distance. And the walls were broken by large openings to either side. The cells.

  In keeping with the rest of the place, the dungeons did not have doors either. There seemed to be nothing in the openings keeping whatever captives were there inside. There was no tell-tale hum of an electric field, such as a human might use, and nothing in her limited second sight to show that magic was being used. No magic at all in this whole realm apart from the power the living brought with them and the Erith amber sparks carried from the dead.

  Arrow stared at the empty opening of the cell nearest to her for a while, lips pressed together. Perhaps any prisoners the fortress’ master kept were too cowed to move.

  She looked along the corridor. The cells all seemed the same from here. No doors, or bars, just an empty space, often with more shadows.

  She crept along the corridor as quietly as she could. For the first time there were signs of disruption and decay. Some of the walls were scored with what looked like mage fire. A few of the entrance archways had crumbled, scattering bits of stone across the floor, and one of the cells appeared to have collapsed completely, giant blocks of stone almost blocking the entrance.

  And every cell was empty. No sign of life anywhere.

  She was on edge, jumping at the sound of her own breath, heart racing, expecting Saul to return at any moment, or to find that one or more of the darker patches was a dormant surjusi which would wake as she passed by.

  Finally, there was something in the shadows. A darker patch that did not look like the endless pitch of surjusi. She moved forward as quietly as she could, wincing as her foot caught a stray stone and sent it clattering across the floor.

  The shadow at the back of the cell looked like a person, huddled against the wall. She was almost at the opening of the cell, and whoever it was had not moved, or seemed aware of her presence.

  “Stop.”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a squeal, whirling around, expecting to see Saul. There was no one else apart from the person in the cell. Definitely a person, slowly straightening away from the wall, as though the movement was painful.

  “Once you are inside, you cannot get out. You would be trapped as well.” The voice was ragged, exhausted, speaking Erith. An Erith prisoner. The only one she had found. Her heart thumped. Serran? The Erith got to his feet, using the wall for support, and came towards her.

  As he moved, Arrow had several more shocks. His face was lined with age, hair turned snowy white. Age rarely showed so clearly on the Erith.

  And s
he knew him.

  A precious, bright, long-ago memory surfaced. The first time she had seen magic. Lying in the spring grass, a child barefoot and carefree, watching frogs emerge from a nearby pond. A dry voice, outlining the cycle of life to her. Pushing her to see beyond the physical and see instead the energy that surrounded all things, the magic in things. The pleased smile on the old Erith’s face when she saw the energy the Erith harnessed as magic.

  The same face she saw now, even older and more lined than before.

  “Nassaran.”

  “Hmph. A name I used only once.” He stopped in his forward movement, chin jerking up, eyes narrowing, amber sparks flaring in their depths. “Granddaughter.”

  “You are Serran?” Her voice lifted to a squeak.

  “The one and only.” He made an odd, dry sound which Arrow realised was supposed to be laughter. He shuffled forward a little more until they were an arm’s length apart. Despite his visible age, his eyes were sharp and keen as he inspected her, power bright. His face lost focus for a moment, and then tightened with a pinch of pain. Trying to use second sight, Arrow guessed. “Well. War mage and shadow-walker. Not an easy combination. Where is your cloak?”

  “I do not have one.” Arrow heard the bite in her voice. The only graduate from her class to not receive a cloak, it still stung, stupidly. She was in exile now and could not wear a mage’s cloak in the human world. She shook her head. They were in a demon fortress. Distraction could be fatal. “How do these cells work? How do I get you out?”

  “It is surjusi magic. Very hard to read. But there should be a stone at the side.” He jerked his head to indicate one side of the cell. “A circle with a line. Turn it so the line is horizontal.”

  “As simple as that?” Arrow was sceptical. Nothing in this place was easy.

  He lifted one shoulder. That was as much of an answer as she was going to get, she saw. Not that simple, then.

  Nassaran and Serran both. She shook her head, the puzzle pieces not fitting together. The Erith’s favourite mage. Her caretaker for her early years.

  The circular stone was big enough that she needed both hands to turn it, and had to put all her strength into moving it. The stone grated as it turned, noise loud. She tensed further, certain that a horde of surjusi would descend on her. Or Saul.

  “Is that it?” she asked. The faint line across the stone was perfectly horizontal.

  “Your part anyway. This may take a while.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, Serran took a step forward, into the threshold of the cell, and seemed to freeze. She could see him straining forward, expression telling her how much effort he was making, and yet he did not appear to be moving. A few moments passed and she realised that he was, in fact, moving, just slowly.

  Mindful of his warning that she could be trapped too, and also knowing that Erith did not like their weaknesses exposed, Arrow put her back to the cell and kept watch.

  There was plenty to occupy her mind. Serran was indeed alive, as the six had said. And apparently had disguised himself as Nassaran to look after her when she was very small. Some of her best memories might be of Nassaran, and yet he had not been an easy teacher. She wondered if Seggerat and Evellan had known that the old hermit Nassaran was in fact Serran. That did not seem to fit, though, as they had both treated her carer with some disdain the few times they had seen him. So Serran must have created an effective disguise. Good enough to fool the Preceptor.

  Serran vo Liathius had supposedly disappeared before Arrow’s birth, not knowing that he had a grandchild. That was what she had been told. But, she reminded herself, the Erith lied. They lied very well. And Serran had never answered to anyone. Not even the Queen.

  Question upon question piled up in her mind. She clenched her jaw to hold the words in. Now was not the time.

  At length the silence was broken by a gasp of effort. She turned slightly. He was most of the way through, still held by his calf. He was breathing hard, sweat gleaming on his face.

  “Can I help?”

  “No. Stay where you are or we will both be caught.”

  Arrow stayed where she was and extended her senses. There was nothing within her range. Not any surjusi, nor the six. Not Kester.

  “Finally.” Serran managed the one word before collapsing on the corridor surface, chest rising and falling with his breath.

  Arrow knelt beside him.

  “Do you need food? Tea? Salve?” Practical aid.

  “No. Just a moment. Cursed surjusi. Leave me be, girl.” He waved a hand, impatient, dismissing her. The Erith’s most famous mage scowled like a petulant child. Arrow made no response. He was worn from effort, and ragged looking. Questions could wait for another time.

  She went back to her watch, setting herself the task of remembering the way out, hoping the six were also on their way back to the meeting point.

  A slight rustle of cloth behind her and she turned to find Serran getting to his feet, restored to calm. He still looked ancient. He looked older than Eimille, the oldest Erith Arrow had ever met, and she knew that was not true.

  “Is there a plan?” he asked, coming to stand next to her.

  “We need to find the others.”

  “So you met the six? Good. Lead on.”

  Arrow cast a glance over her grandfather. There was a set to his jaw that seemed determined. He was not in the mood for idle chatter. So she swallowed her dozen or more questions and led the way back up the long flight of stairs to the upper level and the endless corridors.

  CHAPTER 17

  What seemed another age later and she was hopelessly lost. They had left the dungeons by the same staircase she had used to access them. She was sure of that. And she had led them along the corridor she had used, trying to get back to entrance. Something was wrong. The corridor had taken turns she did not remember, and there had been doorways she knew had not been there before. She was not even sure they were in the same part of the building.

  “Another wrong turn?” Serran sounded disappointed. They had turned a corner and found a blank, dead end. The third one.

  “Something is wrong,” Arrow told him, leading them back to the last turn.

  “Yes. Your sense of direction is appalling. War mages are usually trained better.”

  “The fortress is changing. This opening was not here before,” Arrow told him, nodding towards an opening opposite.

  “It is a surjusi fortress,” Serran said, with every sign of forced patience. “Did you think it would be easy?”

  “Of course not. But the route is gone.”

  “Then use a tracking spell.”

  “This is a surjusi fortress,” she said, turning his words back to him. “There could be a hundred surjusi nearby. Would you like to fight them?” Arrow heard the sarcasm in her voice and bit her lip, wondering if she should apologise. They were lost. She had led them here. Serran had been imprisoned, and was not in the best of health.

  “That little sword of yours should deal with them nicely.”

  Any wish to apologise vanished. Arrow clamped her jaw shut before she said something even more ill-tempered, and stalked ahead. This corridor was one of the main ones, and if she had guessed right, would lead them to an archway and exit to the mountain. Eventually. It felt as though they had been walking for hours. The only thing she was certain of was that, having come up from the dungeon level, they had not gone up or down any floors.

  She looked back at Serran and clenched her jaw. He looked half-dead, breathing fast and light, hollows in his face.

  “Let us stop for a while,” she suggested, opening her messenger bag. “Here. There is peppermint tea. And some food.” She handed the flask and a paper wrapped packet of human food across to him, not waiting for his answer, sliding down to settle with her back against the wall. Her feet ached, her legs tired. A rest was a good idea.

  Serran said nothing, settling on the ground opposite her, movements slow as if he was in pain. She mentally reviewed the contents of
her messenger bag.

  “I have a healing potion if you wish,” she offered.

  The old mage gave a low sound that she took as consent, even though he would not voice a request. She dug out the vial, rose, took it across to him, and returned to her spot, keeping her eyes on their surroundings while he drank the potion, ate the food and finished whatever had been left in the flask.

  When she glanced back he looked healthier. A little. Which only showed just how ill he had looked before.

  “Powerful magic. A shadow-walker,” he commented, tilting his head to the empty vial. “But you have little skill in healing.”

  Arrow felt her lips press in a flat line. She should not feel disappointed. He had been absent for most of her life. And it was true. She did have little skill in healing.

  “What was my father like?” she asked. Mostly because she was genuinely curious. Apart from the bare information the Queen and Miach had given her, she knew nothing about the part-Erith, part-human man that Alisemea had chosen as her vetral, in defiance of Seggerat. And partly, she admitted in the deep part of her mind, to try and provoke a reaction from Serran. The old mage had been dismissive and sarcastic, showing no trace of the Erith who had enjoyed a drink and a liaison.

  “Your father.” Serran’s shoulders hunched over, arms folded across his middle. Defensive. “Which one was he?”

  Arrow framed the words again on her own lips, not quite sure what she had heard. Which one was he? As though there had been more than one? As though Serran could not remember?

  “His name was Gareth. So I am told.”

  “Gareth.” Serran squinted into middle distance. “No. Nothing.”

  “Named for his mother’s father, I believe.”

  “Still nothing.”

  “You had more than one child?” Arrow asked, hearing the bite in her voice. Children were prized among the Erith. A long-lived race, children were rare, and treasured. Mostly. She knew, first hand, that there were exceptions. And she was mostly Erith. She could only imagine how the more tradition-bound Erith might have reacted to an even mix of Erith and human.