Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  She forgot about everything else and anyone else as she moved into second sight, recognising the signs of Orlis’ cleansing at once. He had done an excellent job, removing all trace of surjusi taint. Even so, she could still see the echoes of it through Duraner’s body, strongest around his mouth, the line of it travelling down his throat to his stomach.

  She came back to the first world and checked who was in hearing before she spoke.

  “The surjusi trace was in something he consumed,” she told them.

  Undurat’s already solemn expression tightened. She wanted to offer reassurance, no words coming to mind.

  “Possibly deliberate poisoning, then,” Kallish said, face grim.

  “Was he a warrior as well?” Zachary asked. The Prime had been standing quiet and still to one side. The shifkin honoured their dead as well.

  “No. He was a Gardener. At the temple.”

  “Where we are going?” Zachary’s eyes gleamed with sharp interest. “And tainted?”

  “Yes.” Arrow did not ask how the Prime had known. He understood far more Erith than he would admit to, and had been battling with the Erith for far longer than she had been alive.

  “Are we taking him back to the temple?” he asked.

  Arrow translated the question.

  “No,” Undurat answered. “He will be taken home. Our parents are gone, but there is still family who will want to be there.”

  A slight sound at the door drew their attention. The third on duty were back, with what looked like a stretcher.

  “Ready when you are, Undurat,” the leader said.

  Kallish took them back to the Taellaneth main building while Undurat and the third readied Duraner’s body for travel.

  ~

  No one spoke on the short walk back to the main building. They arrived to find that the vehicles had all gone, leaving the Taellaneth unsullied by human technology once more. Almost, Arrow reminded herself. She and the Prime were dressed in human clothing, and the Prime was also armed. She almost laughed, wondering what Zachary’s reaction would have been if Ferdith had also demanded that the Prime find some Erith clothing to wear.

  “We are running late,” Ferdith said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “The relays are waiting.”

  Arrow cast a glance back. Undurat and the third were coming along the path, bearing Duraner’s body on the stretcher. Somehow they were walking in perfect harmony, despite Undurat’s longer legs, the stretcher between them carried level, a purple cloth over the body.

  “This way,” Ferdith prompted.

  Her eyes burning, she went with the group through the main doors of the building, stomach tightening as she walked, anticipating the nausea of mirror travel.

  Everything was familiar and strange at the same time. Corridors she had walked for years, oath-bound to the Erith’s service, following one command after the other. The building had suffered damage at the hands of the rogue magician, Nuallan, and here and there she could see differences. A few pieces of sculpture were missing. The panels in this corridor did not quite match. That would soon be remedied. The Taellaneth Steward would accept nothing less than perfection. The tapestries here were frayed at the edges, still.

  And there. In that space. She had last seen the Taellaneth Steward, lying on the floor, the broken body of one of the messengers lying across him, Sir Messian with terrible injuries of his own.

  “It is not perfect. Not yet.” Sir Messian’s voice snapped her back to the here and now. He was nearby, walking with the aid of a slender cane. Not as upright as she remembered, silver in his hair around his temples. “Too much damage was done.”

  “Sir.” Arrow acknowledged him and fought the impulse to bow. To her surprise, his face split in a smile, warmth chasing the shadows from his face.

  “You have grown into yourself well, mage,” he told her. “Go now. The others are waiting. We will see each other again.”

  “Arrow. Are you alright?” Kallish’s voice brought her attention back again.

  She looked away from the Taellaneth Steward and found the warrior waiting for her, frowning.

  “Yes. I was just …” Arrow turned and blinked. The corridor was empty. There was no sign of Sir Messian.

  “Ferdith is getting impatient,” Kallish said, voice carefully neutral.

  Arrow cast another look around the otherwise empty corridor and followed the warrior on to the Receiving Hall.

  CHAPTER 10

  The mirror relay was ready. A half-dozen mages were gathered nearby, faces tight with the strain of holding the magic in place. Arrow wondered where the Preceptor was. Evellan could have held the relay on his own with little effort. The giant sheet of mirrorglass, one she did not know, was held in a simple wooden frame, surface shimmering with amber, the view on the other side a plain stone chamber that looked familiar.

  “We are going to the Palace?” Arrow asked Kallish.

  “At first, yes. The others are mostly through.”

  Arrow looked around the room and saw that was right.

  “After you,” she told Kallish. The warrior merely nodded and stepped forward.

  Arrow waited until Kallish’s cadre was through and the stone chamber at the other side seemed mostly empty before she stepped forward. She was torn apart into millions of tiny fragments, scattered in an unseen wind, bits and pieces of her person jumbled up, swirled together, then sucked back together into a whole.

  She stumbled out of the mirror, stone under boots, staggered until she hit something solid and cool. Wall. She did not know was up or down or real or imagined. Her wards flickered, silver sparks hurting her eyes, and died, everything too scrambled for her power to hold.

  Her feet slid out from under her and she fell. Down. That was down. At least she knew she was not moving any more. She turned her face into the stone, feeling the hard, cool surface against her overheated skin. Her stomach was in the wrong place. Her heart was too fast and too loud. Her skin was prickling under her clothes, itching with the aftermath of the mirror.

  “Arrow.” A familiar voice. Orlis. It was too close an echo of her first visit to this room. All that was needed now was the first guard.

  “Arrow.” Miach’s voice. As if her mind had conjured him. She risked opening her eyes, not sure if her ears had betrayed her. The world was swimming in a way that made her stomach twist again. But she could see Miach’s face near Orlis. Satisfied she was not dreaming, she closed her eyes again before the turning of the room made her sick. Miach’s voice continued. “The journeyman has something to settle you.”

  She held out a hand, fingers trembling, and Orlis put a flask into it.

  “Sip slowly,” he told her.

  She did. The fresh, tart taste of citrus burned her tongue, clearing her senses a little more.

  “Will she be like this each time?” Ferdith’s voice cut through the pulse roaring in her ears. “We have a half dozen relays to go.”

  “Shadow-walkers do not travel through mirrors well.” She knew that voice. She could not place it just now. But she knew the voice. “We told you this. Many times.”

  Willan. War mage. One of the six. Not someone she had expected to hear.

  There was a rustle of cloth nearby. She opened her eyes again to find Willan crouching beside Orlis, nothing but concern in his face.

  “Arrow. It is good to see you, although I wish circumstances were different. I am afraid we have more mirrors to travel. If you will trust us, Orlis will give you something to sleep and we can carry you through.”

  Every part of her revolted at the idea. Asleep. Among the Erith. Borne through mirrors as a helpless body.

  Something of her feeling must have shown on her face. Willan’s brow lifted, but he nodded.

  “I would not be happy with the idea, either. The alternate option is for the relays to be rearranged.”

  “And I told you, that is not possible.” Ferdith sounded tense.

  “Not for everyone, no.” Willan did not even turn to glanc
e at Ferdith. “But for Arrow, and a small group to go with her, it is possible.”

  The war mage had silenced the warrior, Arrow saw, much to her relief. She closed her eyes again. The room was still rolling. A little less than before.

  “Very well,” Ferdith said grudgingly. “We will send everyone else first. Who will stay with her?”

  “I will,” Orlis said at once. There was another chorus of voices from inside the room and outside. Arrow’s face scorched. She had a wider audience than she had realised. And under the heat of embarrassment, a touch of different, more welcome, warmth. That chorus of voices had been unprompted. Not all Erith despised her.

  “I need to speak with her at once.” Even as the warmth of friendship settled some of the nausea, a sharp, unwelcome voice brought it back again.

  There was a muffled reply to the demand.

  “I do not care if she is ill. I will speak with her now. Alone.”

  Arrow opened her eyes once more, the room around her pitching in an uncomfortable turn before it settled. She moved her eyes, slowly and carefully, to find Serran vo Liathius in the doorway of the room, looking furious and impatient. And frightened.

  She blinked, mind sluggish, and when she looked again could not find the fear again. She might have imagined it.

  Whilst she was puzzling over his expression, Serran was ordering everyone out of the room, not caring about his tone, or who he was speaking to, insisting he speak with his granddaughter alone.

  Arrow did not want everyone to leave. She felt naked, huddled on the floor with no wards around her. And could not move. Not yet.

  “Serran, she is no state to be shouted at,” Orlis said. She could not remember the last time she had heard Orlis so cross.

  “Get out,” Serran answered, voice a snap.

  Arrow opened her eyes again, only then realising she had closed them, and saw Orlis glaring at Serran, and holding his ground, Kallish and her third around him.

  “Let him speak,” Arrow said, her voice hoarse. “The quicker he does, the quicker we can move on.”

  “If you are sure, mage,” Kallish said, lifting a brow in her direction. “You look quite ill.”

  “I am not going anywhere,” Arrow assured them. Whatever Orlis had given her was settling her stomach, finally, and she got her wards back up, the silver reassuring before she dimmed the spells to a near-invisible shimmer in first sight.

  Serran waited until the others had left before he chalked a rune on the wall beside the door. Confusion. He did not want anyone to overhear their conversation.

  She thought about getting to her feet, but even thinking about the effort required made her shiver, cold under her clothes, mouth dry and throat tight. So she stayed on the floor, knees gathered up, and waited for Serran to speak.

  It seemed an age before he did. He was standing near the rune, eyeing her with what looked like disgust. An expression she was deeply familiar with.

  “You will stay here at the Palace.”

  She wanted to laugh. The Erith’s most famous mage could, by all accounts, be charming. He had never sought to use that charm with her, his granddaughter. Instead, he berated her and ordered her as though she were a child barely able to walk.

  “It is not safe where they are going,” he added, his tone softer. Perhaps this was the charm that he was famous for. She did not think so. It was not very endearing.

  “Nowhere is safe, mage,” she answered, voice still creaking. “And I am summoned by the heartland along with the others.”

  “They can manage without you,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal.

  Something about his manner piqued her curiosity. There was no trace of the fear she had seen before. He seemed angry. And determined that she should do his will. When she had last seen him, he had demanded she come to the heartland. To be properly educated as a young lady, he had claimed. Young ladies of the Erith did not behave as she did. She still found that funny. No one had ever thought she was a lady of the Erith.

  “The temple does not think so,” she told him, straightening slightly so that she had a better angle to look at him. The movement unsettled her stomach again. “Why do you want me here?”

  “You need to ask?” His brows lifted in apparent unfeigned surprise. “What is that outfit you are wearing?”

  “Appropriate day wear for the human world,” she answered, irritated. She was tempted to add that the clothes were better quality than any human-made clothes she had ever had working for the Taellan. She did not think that he would be impressed. He was used to a quite different lifestyle.

  By contrast to her practical trousers, heavy-soled boots, and leather coat, he was wearing robes, apparently plain and unadorned, the sort favoured by many high-ranked Erith. The cloth seemed ordinary but was in fact difficult to make, the cost far beyond the reach of most Erith. And even though she did not know him well, the robes seemed an odd choice for the Erith’s favourite mage. Something more flamboyant, like the ornate robes favoured by Eshan nuin Regersfel, the former Chief Scribe, seemed more fitting.

  “Human world.” His lip lifted in what looked like a sneer. “Women can still dress well in the human world.”

  A clean wash of anger had her sitting up straighter. She had a lifetime of criticism and taunts behind her. More was not required. She was still not sure she could stand, the world slowly becoming more stable as long as she stayed still. But she could use her voice.

  “Mage, what do you want of me?” she demanded.

  “I would like to get to know my granddaughter,” he answered. The words were unexpected enough that she stilled for a moment. Spoken in an almost gentle tone. Words that should have been welcome and warming. And yet. Something was not right. He had never been gentle. Even when pretending to be Nassaran, the old hermit who had looked after her in early years. And since she had met him in the surjusi lord’s dungeon he had been prickly, demanding, abrasive and evasive. Not gentle.

  Her eyes narrowed and she stared at him. He seemed sincere. The Erith who had fathered at least two children with different human women, and then seemed to forget the children’s names. Perhaps he was sincere. Something instinct suggested not. And Arrow had long ago learned to pay attention to her instincts.

  “Another time,” she told him, matching his gentle tone. “I have work to do first.”

  “I cannot help you, then,” the mage said, straightening. It was an odd response. An appropriate end to a strange conversation.

  Serran beckoned to someone outside the open doorway and Ferdith came back in, breaking the confusion spell as he passed through the doorway. “I will go through now,” the mage told him.

  The mirror mages came back in on Ferdith’s order and Arrow watched, slightly bewildered, as Serran stepped through the mirror, following the others who had already gone.

  The ripple of the mirror as the mage passed through made her nauseous again and she closed her eyes, aware of movement around her and a low-voiced debate she did not try to follow.

  Serran’s final words to her echoed through her mind. A warning. Regret. Something else. She could not tell, keeping her eyes closed against the swirling colours of the room and the nausea that kept threatening to rise up despite the potion Orlis had given her.

  It seemed too short a time before there was a gentle touch on her arm.

  “Arrow.” Kester. Disoriented from the mirror, she had missed him among the others earlier, one uniform among many, fabric blending into shadows as it was designed to do. “Kallish and her third will come with Orlis, you and me. The others are already ahead.”

  “It is a longer transfer this time, and they cannot hold it for long,” Orlis warned. He and Kester helped her to her feet, taking an elbow each. “The other end of the relay leads to open ground. You will probably collapse, but stay still. You do not need to move for a long while. And I have more of the potion.”

  “We will not let anything harm you, mage,” Kallish promised.

  Arrow’s eyes filled wit
h unwanted and unexpected tears. A solemn promise from a warrior. She trusted Kallish. With every part of her being. Kallish, her third, Orlis, and Kester. Among the Erith she trusted most.

  So she let herself be led to the mirror and made her own way through it.

  ~

  She did not remember much about the next few hours. There was ground underneath her body, someone occasionally ran a damp cloth, scented with rosemary and mint, across her face, and something was put to her mouth now and then. She sipped cautiously, throwing up the first few attempts. Nothing in her body made sense. It felt like her heart was in her feet, her stomach where her heart should be, pulse thudding along her arms, everything vibrating with an odd urgency against her senses and her body, an urgency she could not respond to.

  At length, she was done. Done being sick. Done with being displaced. Done with lying on the ground.

  She sat up, hissing as every muscle in her body protested, reflexively reaching for her power to send some healing through her body, and hissing again as the power scorched through her.

  “Do you think you could manage some peppermint tea?” Kester asked. He was settled on the ground nearby, still and quiet in the poor light.

  “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse. She coughed. Her throat was sore. “Did I scream?”

  Kester hesitated a fraction in pouring her a wooden beaker of tea. “No. Should you have screamed?”

  She took the cup from him, not meeting his eyes. She did not think she had actually slept. She could not remember any nightmares while she had been lying here. That did not mean much. She had a strong sense that whatever happened in her dreams, only tiny fragments made it through to her waking.

  She clasped her hands around the cup, grateful for the small trace of warmth. Someone had covered her with a blanket where she lay, but she was still cold. “Where are we?”

  Kester’s hesitation caught her attention again. She gave him her full attention, silver growing in her eyes as she sent her senses out.