Concealed: The Taellaneth - Book 1

by Vanessa Nelson

  “At the main gate.” The elder did not look at the lady, attention still on Arrow. “The Prime expects our compliance.”

  Arrow said nothing. Either the elder would agree or he would not. A coil of apprehension settled in her. The elder was capable of letting his pride keep her here, against the Prime’s wishes. With use of Erith magic, and possible Erith involvement in Marianne’s death, that would not be wise. More than that, the Prime’s open demand for her presence suggested something else had happened outside the Erith borders.

  “The shifkin are determined and experienced trackers and warriors.” The Preceptor’s voice was thoughtful. He was not speaking to anyone in particular, making the remark to the air.

  “Very well. You may go and see what the Prime wants.” The elder was ungracious, lips still thin. “Relay the message,” he ordered Eshan, ignoring the curl of Eshan’s lip as he was demoted to mere messenger to the shifkin.

  “Arrow,” the Preceptor caught her attention, “let us be clear. The surjusi cannot be allowed to roam. You will use whatever resources and whatever means you need to stop it. Kill the summoner and send that thing back where it belongs.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The weight of his command settled on her and she swallowed nausea. It was not the first time the Preceptor, or the Taellan, had sent her to kill something. It did not get easier.

  “Before we finish, one final item of business.” The elder’s eyes flicked to Kallish, who came to attention smoothly. “Svegraen,” the elder said, contempt on his face.

  “My lord.” Kallish bowed. Arrow glanced around the table and saw contempt reflected in other faces, too. Kester’s face was closed, a mask hiding his true feelings.

  “You were charged with the protection of one of our number,” Seggerat continued, and Arrow’s uneasy feeling crystallised. Surely the Taellan were not going to hold the captain responsible. “You failed in that protection, allowing the Taellan to become injured. Worse. Tainted.”

  “And allowed a member of your cadre to fall,” the Sovernis lady put in, doubtless concerned the elder would forget that insult.

  Kallish nuin Falsen said nothing, holding quite still, spots of colour blooming along sharp cheek bones. Arrow could not tell if that was shame or anger, but she had no doubt of her own feeling.

  “You have taken the warrior’s report?” she asked the elder, cool tone one she had never dared before in this company. The elder’s intense, displeased glare pinned her, drying her mouth, but she held her ground.

  “We have Lord Juinis’ own account.”

  “I was injured,” the head of House Halsfeld protested, fury shaking his voice.

  “You were …” Arrow snapped, patience gone, forcibly biting off the next word and clamping her jaw shut for a moment before saying, in a more moderate voice, “reckless.”

  The silence was absolute. To Arrow the moment distorted as, light headed, she realised she had just lost her temper with the entire Taellan. There was no way to take the words back, to unsay them, and no apology that would earn her forgiveness. And she found that she could not form the words, let alone the will, for an apology even in her mind. The Taellan might be stung by the injury to one of their number, and the Lady Sovernis by the loss to her House. They had not stood on that street. They had not faced what the warriors had faced, and not for the first time. So, she did not bow. Instead, she straightened her spine, waiting for the wash of fury.

  It broke over her head at once. The elder rose to his feet again, along with half the Taellan, all voices raised at once. Picking out individual voices was almost impossible but they all had in essence the same question. How dare she?

  When the storm had died for a moment, at the elder’s insistence, silence returned. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on Arrow.

  “The Taellan was warned once and warned twice and still persisted in walking into danger, lords and ladies. Erith are taught to bear the consequences of their own actions.” Arrow heard her voice shake and, with a little skip of her heart, recognised that it was not fear. Rather, she was furious. Juinis, used to every protection and comfort of an ancient House, might truly believe that his White Guard protectors had failed, but no proper enquiry had been made and Kallish’s sense of honour and her training would not let her question the charge.

  “Warned?” the elder said, low and dangerous but, to Arrow’s sharp ear, not wholly outraged. To charge the lord with being reckless was to remind the Taellan that all Erith, whatever their station, were expected to be guardians of their own conduct and measure their words and actions, not rush heedlessly into danger. Juinis had settled back into his chair, the flush in his cheeks no longer entirely from anger. His silence spoke for him, a fact she was sure the elder did not miss.

  “By a senior White Guard and by a war mage,” she confirmed.

  “War mage. Abomination!” The comment came from one of the Taellan, disgusted. Arrow thought it might have been the Sovernis lady, prickling under the loss of one of her House. The who did not matter. It was a widely-held view in this room.

  Without surprise, Arrow realised that Seggerat was going to deal with her outburst by ignoring it. Accustomed to near-absolute power, she was regarded as a necessary evil and nothing more. She was sure that, if asked, the elder would say he did not wish to give her credence.

  The elder settled at the table once more, composure restored, and turned his attention to the warrior.

  “You are demoted. Kester vo Halsfeld will carry the order to the commander and you will be reassigned. Dismissed.”

  “My lord.” Not a hair out of place, Kallish executed a flawless bow and left the room, eyes straight ahead.

  “You have much to do.” The elder’s voice was silky.

  “Elder.” Arrow did not bow, just inclined her head, fury still riding her.

  “Report to my study. I will be along shortly,” Evellan ordered, voice casual, eyes sparkling with amusement. Arrow suspected the amusement was at her expense, some part of the long-term game of power he was engaged in with Seggerat.

  “My lord.” She gave him a small bow and left the room, stalking along the corridor. Coming across one of the messengers she sent him to the gate with a more cordial message for the shifkin, if they were still there, and requesting details of when and where she should meet them, details that she was confident Eshan would forget. For the first time she could remember, after a close look at her face, the messenger did not argue, simply swallowed hard and ran.

  ~

  Clean air on her face was just what she needed, the scent of the Erith garden soothing her as she descended the shallow steps at the front of the main building. The pale stone sculpture stared back at her and she walked around until she stood facing the mage, stopping a moment to look at the familiar face, his eyes fixed on his enemy. The sculpture was larger than life, casting a shadow over her as she paused, feeling the resonance of the courage shown by the warriors and war mage more acutely than ever, having seen what they faced. She bowed her head in silent respect and turned, intending to make her way to the Academy.

  Just out of view of the main building she acquired a shadow.

  “They are sending you after the surjusi?” Kallish’s voice was cool.

  “They are, svegraen. Tomorrow, I think. Today I must share information with the Preceptor.”

  “Such things should not be faced alone.” There was something in the warrior’s face that held Arrow silent for a moment. Some memory too dark to be spoken. The warrior held out something. “When you find it, call.”

  Arrow took the item held out with automatic thanks, looking down to find a small grey communicator disk in her hand. She looked up to find the faintest trace of a smile on the warrior’s face, amusement at her shock.

  “Not alone,” the warrior repeated, inclined her head, and strode off leaving Arrow open-mouthed, fingers clenched around the precious chip of stone. A White Guard emergency beacon, keyed to Kallish if she was not mistaken. Arrow had never seen o
ne before. The White Guard protected them almost as fiercely as their medallions.

  She tucked the beacon into an inner pocket, sealed with a spark of magic, and had to force her hand away. Not alone. The warrior could not possibly know the full extent of what those words meant. Arrow glanced back at the statue, barely visible through the trees, the warriors close around the mage, each holding their post, and her throat tightened. Not alone.

  Voices, a pair of White Guard on patrol, broke her mood and she made her way briskly towards the Academy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She arrived at the Academy before the Preceptor and, mind busy on other matters, almost ran into Gesser vo Regresan. He was less than pristine, robes marred with chalk dust, faint trace of a bruise across one cheek.

  “Runt!” He seized her arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Come with me.”

  “I cannot. I am needed -”

  “I do not care. With me. Now.”

  Arrow dug her heels in, forcing him to stop or drag her bodily along the corridor. He stopped, glaring at her, disbelief across his face.

  “I command you. Now.”

  “I cannot. I have an appointment with the Preceptor.”

  “Evellan?” he sneered. “What could he possibly want with you?”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  His grip tightened, and she pulled away, moving him a step before he dug in his heels in his turn, twisting her arm to an uncomfortable angle where her shoulder would dislocate if he pulled harder. From the glint in his eyes he knew precisely what he was doing.

  Her wards flared, cascading silver over him, and he hissed, loosening his hold, giving her a hard, angry shove so that she stumbled back several paces. She stopped, facing him, wards visible. His bullying was normally a private thing.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The Preceptor’s silky quiet voice startled them both.

  “This runt refused a command.” Gesser twitched his robes into place, straightening, hair somehow smoothing itself.

  “Arrow is under my order.” The Preceptor’s voice was still smooth.

  “What could you possibly want with it?” Gesser’s lip curled. “I require a demonstrator.”

  Ah. The tenth cycle class. The chalk dust and bruise made sense. Arrow bit her lip. Apparently, Gesser’s concentration under distraction had not improved if students were able to hit him so easily.

  “You are a senior student. Arrow is a graduate. Do your own demonstrations. Arrow, this way.”

  Arrow said nothing, following Evellan down the corridor. That was twice Gesser’s will had been crossed, and this time publicly. There had been no retaliation last time. This time there would be.

  “I want you to draw the runes you saw, in as complete a form as you can. Not whole, you understand.”

  “I understand,” Arrow said. Even without a mage’s will behind them, whole runes had their own power and the Preceptor did not want any of the unclean spells alive in his study. “Which runes, my lord? The ones from the mountain or the ones from Hallveran?” They were walking along an open corridor, a number of curious students wandering between lessons.

  “Both, of course. Get to it, the door is open.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Arrow went into his study alone, a rare occurrence, and found that he had added a workbench, a waist-high, long, wooden table. There were writing supplies on the bench. A large stack of the parchment-thin rice paper the students used to practice and a pyramid of chalk, ready for her.

  His desk was also in the worst state she had ever seen it. Piled high with homework, scrolls and parchments, as well as some empty potion bottles. She frowned at the mess. The Preceptor famously would not permit anyone to clean for him, yet always seemed to have matters under control. Thinking back, she tried to remember if she had seen or felt Teaching Mistress Seivella’s presence anywhere. Despite having her own reasons to dislike the lady, Arrow knew that Seivella and Evellan were close, too close according to some students, although Arrow did not believe that gossip, and the lady was generally conscientious in her duties at the Academy. Whatever had taken the lady away from her duties must be serious, and her lengthy absence unplanned.

  If she had the time, Arrow would go and sit quietly in the refectory and listen to the student chatter. What they said, and what they did not say. Another time. For now, she had work to do.

  Sometime later she was kneeling on the floor, making sure that the last of the summoning circle runes was correctly placed when the door opened behind her. Weapons oil and cardamom. Heat ran up her face. Her loss of temper before the Taellan resurfaced. With the heat of the moment gone she was faintly embarrassed by her loss of composure, but mostly irritated with the Taellan for their cavalier disposal of a good warrior’s service.

  “Arrow,” Kester’s voice was bright, “Evellan not here yet?” He glanced across at the untidy desk and frowned in his turn.

  “I have not seen him for a while, my lord.” She rose, glanced down and grimaced. Her already wrinkled outfit was now covered in chalk dust and even more creased.

  “These are the spells you saw?” He did not appear to notice her discomfort or dishevelled state, stepping past her to look at the large circle of papers she had created on the floor.

  “The spells from Hallveran, yes. The others,” she tilted her head to the papers laid out on the bench, “are from the mountain.”

  “They do not look complete,” he observed. He had his hands folded carefully behind his back, appropriately wary of touching spell runes.

  “That is because only a fool draws complete blood magic.” Evellan entered the room, the door closing softly behind him. “Good,” he said, seeing the papers laid out. “Talk me through this, Arrow.”

  She began with the runes from Hallveran, as they were closest. She had made each rune incomplete when drawing, a skill which was hard-won. So used to drawing the complete rune, or the complete spell, holding back that final line or two was difficult.

  The Preceptor knelt on the floor beside her, shadows spilling around him, brushing against her wards, amber in his eyes prominent.

  She waited for him to test her. To demand how she, apparently a mid-powered mage, had been able to banish a surjusi. To discover that she had never been a mid-level mage, the warm coil of silver purring contentedly inside.

  The question did not arise.

  The Preceptor paled as the day wore on, shadows becoming more restless, face drawn. He had lived through the last incursion, too, she recalled.

  “This is far worse than I feared,” he said at last, voice raw. He rose, moved away from the papers, withdrawing to stand beside his desk, grimace crossing his face as he looked at the piles waiting for his attention.

  “The magician is skilled,” Arrow agreed.

  “Skilled? Skilled! If any one of my students had half the talent he has …” Evellan bit his lip and stared out at the gathering dark.

  “But one person,” Kester put in unexpectedly, drawing a sharp glance from Evellan. “Only one. However powerful, that is something.”

  “Young thing.” Evellan shook his head, and came back to the room. “The mountain spells, Arrow.”

  So, she talked him through the black and white shapes and bloody red runes.

  “Urjusi again.” His lip curled. “The remnants are cleansed?”

  “On the mountain, yes, my lord. I did not have time to do so at Hallveran.”

  “There is a cadre and mage on their way to tend the vicandula. I will make sure they cleanse the Rowan residence.” Evellan made an apparently careless gesture towards his desk. The orb flared a moment, spark of amber lit in its depths. A reminder for later. It was a rare day that the Academy’s head needed such a device.

  “The warrior’s family wanted to have the vicandula moved to the heartland,” Kester said. He sighed, “Lord Whintnath has had to explain matters to them.”

  “I could not leave Etan nuin Sovernis’ body as it was.” Arrow felt heat
in her face, stung into defending her error. The vicandula rose when the soul stone was made, and not before. Transporting the body to the heartland would have given the family a tangible marker for their grief.

  “That is what Whintnath explained. It has been such a long time that some things have been forgotten.” Kester’s voice was heavy. Like her, he was too young to remember the last incursion. Perhaps training with the White Guard, alongside veterans of more than one incursion, had given him better insight.

  “I have seen enough. Arrow, burn the papers. Get whatever you need from the Academy supplies.”

  Arrow gathered the sheets and piled them into the grate, setting them alight with a spark of power, waiting until they had all burned to fine ash before she left.

  ~

  She had survived the day. The Preceptor had not noticed her increase in power. No one had challenged her or called her an abomination for hours, and she had not broken any bones. In the Taellaneth, a day worthy of note and worth celebrating.

  Leaving the Academy building to return to her residence she drew that small spark deep inside, wanting to hold onto it, knowing it would not last. There were mundane tasks to be done, basic housekeeping in her residence and, worst of all, she required to get her laundry done.

  Glancing around she saw the dormitory building of the Academy, a number of smaller windows lit up, no doubt students studying, or just gossipping into the night. A warm and welcoming place, Vailla had described it. Arrow had already been installed in the outbuilding. While the Academy might have allowed her to study, not one single Erith family, high born or low, would have put up with the abomination being housed in the same building as their young. In the past Arrow had envied the students their warmth and the friendships they seemed to form so easily. Now she envied them their innocence. Magic was new, exciting, full of wonder. Not full of the bitter aftertaste of surjusi, summoning spells and unknown, lethal magic she had no idea how to combat.

  Her mood sank lower as she approached the laundry house, full basket a barely noticed burden. Despite the hour, the laundry mistress was still in her domain, nasal voice carrying out of the open doorway.