Concealed: The Taellaneth - Book 1

by Vanessa Nelson

  With the blood sacrifice, the magician could be at any power level. The only thing that was certain was the consummate skill involved in creating this trap.

  And she had to unpick it before they could move on and find out why Marianne Stillwater had been killed. And how a shifkin had come to the attention of such a skilled magician, when ‘kin and magicians generally had as little to do with each other as possible.

  Ignoring the crude shapes and shifting runes, Arrow opened her senses further, focused on the worm. It had sensed the minimal power she was using to hold her second sight and thrashed in its bonds, wanting to be free, hungry enough to be reckless. Staying quiet and still for a while brought her its true name, the necessary key to sending it back to its own realm. Setting her will and a trickle of power behind her words, she forced her lips and vocal chords to shape the sounds of the thing’s name, ears assaulted by the psychic shriek as it was banished.

  Dispatching the worm had woken the protections in the other spells, the crimson runes quivering in readiness, black and white shapes tightening in readiness.

  Standing in the second world, kri-syang in one hand, silver blade solid and real as the lines of power, Arrow cautiously touched the lines of crimson. The black and white shapes folded on themselves, wrapping around her arms, pressure forcing her hand to open and let go of the rune. Reversing her grip on the kri-syang she sliced through one of the shapes, freeing her hand and arm only to have the shapes twist around her ankles, holding her in one place.

  Satisfied that the shapes would not move, she went back to the crimson shapes. The spell was shifting, slowing down in its motion, preparing to trigger. She had to work quickly and delicately.

  Slicing one strand at a time and replacing it with lines of her own she rewrote the spell’s code to focus all its destruction on the spot she was standing. The loose lines of the runes, freed without purpose, slid through the second world, and attached themselves to her body, acid of unclean magic burning against her skin, distracting her with pain, raising red welts.

  The second world, she reminded herself when the pain made her hands shake. The second world, not the real, physical world.

  The pain lessened a fraction and she continued, the world around her glowing with the silver of her own power, her body coated in crimson.

  At last it was done. She was on her knees, encased in the shapes and the fragments of runes, vision blurring, kri-syang trembling as she put its tip to the last spell fragment.

  The crimson died, purpose defeated, the black and white shapes falling with the runes, and she was left in a world nearly dark apart from a slender, clear line. Marianne Stillwater’s trail.

  ~

  Coming back to the first world was a study in pain. Everything ached, skin under her clothes raw and burning from the runes, eyelids stupidly heavy, breathing a labour against the rocks on her chest. Fumbling, she managed to get the kri-syang back into its sheath then the world tilted, spun, and the side of her head hit something hard.

  A moment later and a pair of boots that she did not recognise walked sideways into her line of sight followed by knees she did not know and a face she thought she should know.

  “Arrow?”

  “Mphmph.”

  “Arrow.” There was an earthquake. Everything trembled. The voice which she thought she should know called some incomprehensible commands over her head and then the world was spinning again. No earthquake this time.

  “Is she alright?” Another voice she should know.

  “Frozen through,” the first voice, the one belonging to the boots and knees, answered.

  “Kettle’s on,” the second voice said.

  “Good. Get her boots. Check her feet.”

  “Will do.”

  Fires were started at her hands and feet and she moaned, twisting away from the pain, burning almost as bad as the oath spells in her blood.

  “Arrow.” There was power behind that voice. Power and intent. She froze, blinked. Dangerous. “Stay still. We need to warm you up.”

  “N-n-not,” she started, then bit off her words in a hiss as the fires dimmed down, replaced with itching tingling that made her want to scratch and wriggle away again.

  “Stay still.” There was more power in that voice. Predator. Danger. No, not danger. No threat. Surprise held her for a few moments. Long enough for the fires and tingling to die to something more bearable.

  “Here.” Something was presented to her mouth and she took a careful sip, moaning again. Burning. All the way down. Too hot. “Again.” The second voice was not as strong as the first and she turned her head away. Tried to. Something held her, a hold she could not physically break. More burning liquid forced between her teeth. Swallowed, coughed, choked. Scalding salt fell down her face. More drink.

  Eventually the burning faded. She had endured. Liquid was taken away and the hold relaxed. She sagged, boneless, against whatever was holding her up.

  “You’ll do,” the first voice told her, with utmost confidence. She believed him. Zachary.

  “More chocolate?” The second voice. Matthias. Chocolate? She loved chocolate. When had they given her chocolate?

  “Not just now. Warmth and sleep, I think.” Zachary moved her somehow, lying her down, and pulling something light and oh so warm over her.

  Her eyes were clearing a little and she could make out their faces, blurred, and the bright cascade of oranges beyond that must be a fire.

  “F-found it,” she managed to say, sleep pulling her down.

  “Marianne’s trail?” Zachary’s eyes glinted green in the gloom. The shadow at his shoulder that must be Matthias had stilled.

  “Yes. Follow easily.”

  “Very good.” The Prime’s praise, deeply satisfied, sent her to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Arrow surfaced from sleep to suffocation, chest weighted. Worse, there was no ward about her. Not one scrap of magic. A wordless protest tore out as she tried to move, blinking rapidly, trying to see, reaching for power on instinct, needing defence. The barest trickle, the tiniest fizz in her veins. Useless. Not enough for even the simplest ward. Hollowed out in her centre, all her strength gone. She could not even feel the seals.

  Wriggling, she tried to sit up. The weight on her moved. A soft rumbling sound that did not sound anything like a threat vibrated against her, something damp and rough scraping her cheek, bringing her fully awake. Eyes clearing, she found herself nose to nose with a ‘kin in animal form.

  Tamara. Matthias’ mate. Deep, chestnut red in her animal form, a white stripe between her eyes and down her nose.

  Even as Arrow’s heart rate slowed, Tamara made another soft noise, part protest part comfort, and nosed Arrow’s cheek, casual gesture leaving a cold, damp spot on her skin.

  “Good day to you,” Arrow managed, voice rough. She was still unable to move, Tamara’s greater weight pinning down the covers. Beyond Tamara’s shoulder she saw another ‘kin in animal form. Matthias, of course. Smaller than his mate’s animal form, compact and powerful as he was in human form, he was charcoal grey, blending into the shadows.

  Matthias’ eyes glinted, but he merely got to his feet, shook himself, nudged Tamara and left Arrow’s sleeping space, Tamara following with her ears and tail up.

  She was in some kind of makeshift shelter, a canvas stretched overhead, groundsheet underneath, lying under layers of blankets that were covered with animal hair and the scent of ‘kin.

  Whoever had put her to bed had left her in thermals from neck to toes, and someone, perhaps the same someone, had laid out outer clothes for her, now warm from the ‘kin and covered in hair. Underneath the thermals her skin still felt raw and she pushed up one sleeve finding traces of red across her skin from the spell trap. The Academy’s teaching to junior students was that nothing in the second world could do damage in the first, helping their students overcome their fear of the unknown. A lie. Magicians carried power in their veins, and power could most definitely damage. Making an
assessment from head to toe she was satisfied she was functional. Nothing too badly damaged. Just sore.

  Getting dressed took far longer than she had imagined possible, fingers clumsy and limbs uncoordinated. Lacing her boots took the sort of focus usually reserved for the most complex high magic, and then her arms would not fit in jacket sleeves on the first few attempts. Leaving the jacket open, breathing hard, and with a strong wish to climb back under the blankets, she ducked out of the small shelter into the bright bite of a winter day.

  She found herself facing the Prime, putting items into his pack with brisk efficiency.

  “Chocolate,” he said, rising to his feet with a fluid grace she envied.

  “Good morning.” Her voice was higher than normal. He held out a thermos flask.

  “Chocolate,” he said again. “Or coffee, if you’d rather?”

  “Chocolate would be welcome. Thank you.” She accepted the flask. “Is there a cup?”

  “Drink it all. Slowly.”

  She measured the size and weight of the flask with secret delight. Chocolate was only found in faraway human lands, one of the many foodstuffs forbidden in the Taellaneth, and a rare treat. There had been mention of chocolate the night before, but she had not been able to taste anything. At her first sip she forgot where she was, forgot the Prime moving about the small camp, entire focus on the taste and texture.

  When she had reached the end of the flask, far too quickly, she found that the small camp had been packed up. Only the Prime was visible, and he was binding her backpack to one of the others.

  “It is late,” she realised, dismayed. Close to noon, judging by the angle of the sun through the surrounding trees.

  “You needed sleep.” He fastened the last straps.

  “I should carry my own.” There was no conviction in her words, torn between relief and embarrassment at her obvious weakness. The Prime simply lifted an eyebrow and held a hand out. She offered him the empty flask.

  ~

  Moving too quickly for her to guess his intent, he grasped her wrist instead, turning the inner side up, pushing her sleeve back to expose her skin to light. The flask fell to the ground. The dark markings buried inside her wrist, sharp contrast to pale skin, were vivid in the daylight.

  “And the other?” His voice gave nothing away, at odds with his too-still body.

  Skin prickling as the runes woke up, Arrow tugged her other sleeve back with her teeth and showed him the inner side of her other wrist with its different set of markings below the sheath for her kri-syang. The marks were still and stark to outside view. Inside, the tendrils of the spells they held, woven deep into Arrow’s body, flexed, coiling in readiness.

  “Erith slave markings.” He was no longer calm, thrum of anger making her shiver, a reaction he measured with hard eyes.

  It had not been a question, so she said nothing, markings becoming darker and sharper as the spells remained active.

  “What do they signify?”

  “Service,” she raised her right wrist a fraction, “and obedience,” the left.

  “And how did you come by these markings?” He had both her wrists now, grip firm not cruel. There would be no outward bruises.

  Her mouth opened, sound cut off, spells coursing to life, unseen lines of pain crawling up her arms, fingers clenching in response. Biting her lip held in a gasp.

  Zachary watched with a cool stare. “Oath markings,” he guessed, and she nodded, “which you are not permitted to discuss.”

  “Yes.” Bare sound. If she had been stronger, if she had a fraction of her magic, she could have given him more. As it was she had to lock her knees to remain upright.

  “To the Taellan?”

  “Yes.” Not just the Taellan, but it was the easiest explanation. Originally the spells had bound her to service of the Taellan and Preceptor, but the Taellan had also commanded her to obey Eshan as if he were one of them. She supposed she should be grateful that they had not thought to repeat that command with others. With the spells live in her blood gratitude was taken over by more familiar fury.

  “For your lifetime?”

  “No.”

  “A set period, then.” He lifted one wrist then the other to inspect the markings more closely. Assessing, missing nothing. “I didn’t think the Erith still used such things.”

  “Made an exception.” She forced the words out, anger giving her a moment’s strength, jaw clenching. While the pain had faded, the crawling sensation of foreign, live, spellwork in her body was growing.

  “You have to follow the Taellan’s commands?”

  “Yes.” She wondered how Zachary had learned so much about Erith oath-markings. His questions were careful. Although he was demanding answers, she thought he had already known everything she had told him.

  “And what do the Taellan require of you here?”

  “To find the truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death.” The pain faded.

  “What else?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “No other mission? The Erith haven’t sent you with other orders, too?”

  “No. I may be required to report …” The pain flared again, spells reacting to possible disobedience. She had been commanded, many years before, to never discuss the Taellan’s business. Her knees gave out and she fell into the snow, wrists still held by Zachary, who followed her movement with ease, crouching before her, observing.

  She hated the oath-magic. Had tried to carve it out of her flesh before now, the pain of the blade nothing compared to the pain of the magic. She had hated it before she had fully understood what it was, when the crawling sensation of the marks first bit into her skin, the Preceptor implacable as he spoke the spells, a few of the Taellan as stern-faced witnesses, expressions not changing no matter how much she screamed. They had offered her a choice that was no choice at all. Accept the possibility of life or be killed then and there. And she had wanted to live. Still did.

  Wanting to live, she had learned outward compliance, and how to discipline her mind most of the time so that now the oath spells rarely woke, the first coiling of the spells in her body usually enough to ensure obedience. The Erith were confident in their hold on her.

  “Do you have orders to harm my people? Or me?” The Prime had set his power free, a wash of wild, earth-scented energy that hummed against her skin, and tangled with the Erith oath spell, seeking an answer. The force of the strongest ‘kin alive, seeking truth. Oddly, she discovered that she did not need to obey him. Interesting.

  “No.”

  “And this?” He turned her right hand over, crooked fingers ugly in the daylight.

  “An annoyed classmate at the Academy,” she answered easily. Gesser’s work. He had wanted to test how much pressure was needed to break bones.

  He snarled, clearly displeased, but let her go, turning away. “We should move.”

  ~

  “Prime,” she called his attention back, still kneeling in the snow, “there is something I need to do first.” She managed to get to her feet and looked across to the space where the knotted spells had been the day before. Her second sight was dim, showing her clean air above the ground, and a lingering darkness in the snow that needed to be dealt with.

  Zachary was waiting.

  “The magician left remains.” She moved slowly across the snow, feet dragging.

  “Will they identify him?” The words were spoken just behind her ear and she jumped. Silent and quick across the snow, she had not noticed him move.

  “Unlikely.” A quick glance across and she caught his frown, and impatience. “I cannot in conscience leave this.” That caught his interest.

  The dark blot under the snow was vivid purple and yellow. A bruise, in second sight. In first sight it was a slightly darker patch in the snow under a fallen tree trunk. She knelt close by, hissing a little as her muscles protested, and extended a hand cautiously. Bile rose in her throat.

  “There are remains here, and not anything clean.”
<
br />   “Dangerous?”

  “No. Just …” she hunted for the words, “well, the Erith would say urjusi. The best translation in the human tongue is unholy.”

  “Erith religion?” His lip curled.

  “Not as such. The best approximation. Something unclean, but worse than simply that.”

  She carefully scraped snow away, picking up the small bundle that lay there, skin crawling at the feel of it.

  “What is it?”

  “Leftover from the spell creation.” She opened her hand, showing him. “Residue only. No actual magic remains. Too degraded to follow the creator. But …” she bit her lip, swallowing revulsion and carefully peeled back the leather covering, exposing a small pottery jar full of dark ash, and chose to be angry, “the magician powered his spell with urjusi. Powered by sacrifice. Blood power. This is what is left.”

  “Ashes?” He crouched nearby, eyes intent on the bundle. She nodded. “You said remains. Something living? A person?”

  “Probably,” she chose anger again, “and probably a young one. They have greater potential.”

  Zachary’s lip curled again, teeth gleaming, canines prominent. A low sound lifted the hair on her neck. He rose to his feet.

  “You cleanse it. I’ll bury it,” he said tersely and stalked back to the packs.

  Left with the remains, Arrow shivered, swallowing against nausea. The remains were pathetically small. A handful of ashes in the jar. The wrapper felt like leather, but she knew was most likely skin of the victim.

  The cleansing spell was a minor one, the only thing she had power for, vision blurring and fading at the edges by the time she finished. She could not see any change, second sight temporarily gone with her power, and had to trust her work.