She watched him go for a moment, lightheaded in relief. She was in one piece. She would live a little while longer. Now she had to deliver what she had promised.
CHAPTER FOUR
The site where Marianne Stillwater had died was not far from the township, Matthias had said. He may regard it as close, but it had taken a short journey in his rugged vehicle, weaving through trees, Arrow clutching onto her seat, and then a long walk through primitive forest before they had reached it.
The forest was another wonder to Arrow, so long used to the planned beauty of the Taellaneth. Farraway Mountain’s forest was steeped in age, apparently uncultivated, trees growing where they would. The trees were a mix of species she did not recognise, some giant, their wide trunks rising high over her head, others smaller, looking like youngsters next to the mighty adults, some crowded together, others spaced out. In places patches of bare earth showed under thick, evergreen, canopies while elsewhere light shone through bare branches, reflecting from snow-covered ground. Picking a path between the trees required concentration to navigate the roots and the snow, which fell where it could, at one moment hardly there, knee-deep at the next step.
Bare moments outside the vehicle Arrow had realised how unprepared she was for this journey. Her heavy-soled boots, more than adequate for urban areas, slid on snow. Her messenger bag, so useful for quick access to her tools, kept slipping, threatening to unbalance her and more than once she had sunk into the snow, trouser legs cold and wet.
Now she stood in the middle of shifkin territory, disoriented, cold seeping in through her layers of clothing.
The place where Marianne Stillwater had died was no different from the surroundings they had walked through, as far as she could tell. Another patch of woodland, a mix of evergreens and trees who had long since cast their leaves, bare branches reaching to the sky, heavy cover of snow thinning here under the evergreen trees, heavy scent of pine complementing the cold in the air. One of the old, tall, trees had fallen a while before, letting in more snow and light, and it was in this bare patch that Matthias stood.
“She was found here.” He indicated the space at his feet. “So, show me.”
“I would like to look around a moment, then prepare. The spell takes a little while.” That was an understatement. The reconstruction spell was fiendishly complex, one of the creations of Serran vo Liathius, generally regarded as the foremost magician the Erith had ever had. The whole thing took hours to prepare. Arrow had begun her preparations on the journey here, thinking it might be useful. The preparation had required another stop for food, magic burning through her energy, and had left her with a dull headache and dry, tired eyes. Now, already chilled, she was glad of the effort, the spell primed in a series of keywords, requiring only her will, power, and a little time to ignite.
“Very well. Here.” Matthias handed her a paper-wrapped bundle. “One of Marianne’s scarves.” Something in what he said, or did not say, caught her attention. Some mystery that she did not have time to consider.
“Thank you.” She took the bundle, tucked it carefully into a pocket, and walked around the space, opening her senses slowly to the world.
Winter still, the mountain was apparently serene and calm in the late afternoon. She had thought that the mountain and forest might be quiet, away from the township and ‘kin, but there was wind in the trees, the far-off call of a bird, crunch of snow underfoot and a dozen other small sounds she could not identify.
So far from everything that was familiar to her, Arrow thought it was beautiful, and would be a lonely place to die. A lump of pain caught in her throat at the thought that she might find out before too long, if Matthias was not happy with what the reconstruction spell showed.
Shaking off the useless speculation, senses open, she gathered impressions of the place. Echoes, fading with time. Distress. Grief. Shock. Loneliness. Rage. Murderous rage, in fact. Loss. Several different personalities, none of which she knew, and all within the past few days. No violence. Death left its mark, and violent death more so, and yet all the impressions here were reaction to death, not the cause.
Frowning a little at the anomaly she dug further. Under the sound and feeling was the scent of something primitive, earthen, and ancient. For a moment she thought it was the ‘kin, but as her senses settled she realised it was the mountain itself. Not a fully formed sentience, but definitely aware, the land beneath her feet full of power. Arrow nearly fell again as she walked.
It called to her, seductively close. More power than any magician could use in a lifetime. Power enough to conquer the world. And only a fool would try to take it without permission. The mountain’s awareness had stirred in response to her seeking, a sharpening of attention in the second world, the place of power beyond the plain reality of the here and now, where magicians trained in high magic could see the lines of power and work their spells. The mountain was responding to her presence, recognising a possible threat. The mountain’s power could brush her aside with as much effort as a seed scattered in the wind.
The Erith would call it the mountain’s spirit, that awareness, and accord it the same respect as any living thing. The spirits of the world could help, or hinder, a magician in their work. Arrow murmured a few words in Erith, almost reflexively, reassuring the awareness she had no harmful intent. Settling a little, it watched closely.
When she was satisfied that there was nothing else to learn, she came back to the place Matthias was waiting, set her bag down in the snow and gave him a nod, letting him know she was about to begin. He did not reply, simply stepped back to allow her more room.
Kneeling in the snow, she tugged off her gloves and dug down to the earth, fingers icy cold, burns from the snake venom almost gone. When she had a small, bare patch of earth she drew her kri-syang, a slender silver blade, from the sheath against her forearm and made a shallow slice at the base of her thumb with a practised move, letting some drops of blood fall into the earth, beginning the spell work by asking for the mountain’s aid.
The rush of power from the earth lifted her hair, escaping from her hat, warmed her frozen face and sang through her being. So much power. The spirit’s voice rang, depth and strength nearly overwhelming her, greater than anything she had ever encountered. Training, and the oath spells stirring, brought her focus back. There was work to do.
Connection made, she carefully unwrapped Marianne’s scarf, a feather-light bundle of vivid red wool, and placed it on the earth, holding it with her bloody hand. Drawing on her own power, and the power the mountain lent her, she spoke the prepared words to trigger the spell, setting her will behind each part.
The lines of the spell blazed in second sight, each part locking together to form a twisting, complex whole. She took a moment to check that everything was in order before rising to her feet.
Releasing the spell, she took a step back from Marianne’s final resting place, and then promptly ducked and stumbled back again as a chocolate coloured wolf leapt out of the trees beside her, mouth open, teeth and tongue showing.
Falling back against the fallen tree, giant trunk keeping her upright, Arrow felt heat surge up her neck, face, and ears. The wolf was translucent, and silent. Reconstruction. The wolf was not here. The power of the mountain made the images sharp and clear, full of colour in the winter landscape.
The wolf’s leap was cut off abruptly, something causing her body to jerk mid-air, then fall. There was no sound, but none was needed. All life had gone before she landed. Thrown back to earth, the wolf returned to her human form. Marianne Stillwater in her human form had been a tall woman with pale, flawless skin and waist-length brown hair, blue eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Tall for a ‘kin, Arrow noted.
Out of the trees, from the direction the wolf had been running, a shadowed, indistinct, man-shaped figure came into view, movements oddly uncoordinated, standing over Marianne’s body for a long moment before flicking out one arm, dropping something on the ground beside her body, then turning a
nd moving back the way it had come.
The scene froze, nothing else moving. Arrow looked down at the object beside Marianne’s body, understanding at once why the ‘kin were so convinced that the Erith had killed her.
“That wasn’t White Guard.”
The new voice startled her into a squeal of surprise, wards flaring, hand flexing, mouth opening to speak a spell as she whirled to face the newcomer.
Out of shadows near Matthias another shifkin had arrived. Slightly taller than Matthias, casually dressed in rumpled outdoor clothing, with dark auburn hair that tumbled wildly around his head and brilliant green eyes glittering with power and emotion. Against Arrow’s open senses the newcomer radiated authority and anger. On the surface he appeared no older than Matthias, a mid-thirties male, but very little in the Erith or shifkin world was as it appeared. The most powerful shifkin she had ever encountered, it was only when he had spoken that she had become aware of his presence, catching the briefest sense of age and power, and the dangerous coil of tension and emotion.
She snapped her mouth shut, and carefully lowered her hand to her side, pulse racing, fright holding her still. She had never felt so insignificant next to a sentient being. He was ancient, the weight of his age pressing on her. Older, she thought, than any of the Erith suspected. Zachary Farraway, Prime of the shifkin nation.
He had arrived without escort, or any of the ceremony that accompanied senior Erith. Confident in his own territory, perhaps, but Arrow thought it was more likely that it was simply the shifkin way. Leadership was won in combat, not granted by bloodlines or negotiation.
“No, Prime,” Arrow agreed, although she was not sure it had been a question.
“And what is that?” He waved a hand in the direction that the shadow had gone.
“I do not know, Prime, but I can try to find out.”
She waited for his abrupt nod of assent before she turned her attention away. In this territory, courtesy to the Prime was basic survival. Heart still thumping from his abrupt arrival it took some moments to achieve enough calm to open her second sight again and pick up the threads of the spell.
Moving the spell back to the point that the shadowy figure had arrived she moved it forward again as slowly as she could, the power of the mountain holding the images clear. It was like watching a human-made film frame by frame. The spell obeyed, showing the shadowy figure moving across the clearing until it stood next to Marianne’s body, the heart of the spell and the clearest possible image. Holding the spell, Arrow called more power and focused her will on clearing the darkness. Nothing.
The mountain’s power was vast, and Arrow was stubborn. In the daylight world time ticked past. Despite the freezing cold, sweat broke on Arrow’s face, trickling down her back, and a tremor of effort ran through her. And still the darkness would not clear.
“Enough.” The gruff command came from Matthias, who had moved around the figure, examining it from all angles. “It’s disguised. Doesn’t want to be seen.”
Arrow inclined her head in agreement, letting power seep back into the ground, gasping with the effort of staying upright and conscious as magic drained from her. The scene remained frozen, a film on pause.
“What is it?” A low growl from Zachary, moving forward until he was nose to nose with the shadow.
“No idea.” Matthias was scowling, attention likewise on the shadow.
Arrow shook her head slightly. She could not break through the glamour, could not see the thing’s true nature. The mountain was also frustrated, unable to aid her.
“The spell will hold a while longer. We can view it again, at normal speed,” she offered. It seemed the least she could do. This thing, whatever it was, had killed one of their own, and that made it prey for the shifkin.
Zachary moved out of the way without comment. A nod from Matthias and she drew a breath, calling a little energy back, wrapping the magic to her will and rewinding the scene to the beginning.
Prepared for the sight, Arrow found time to admire the grace of the wolf as she sprang over an unseen obstacle. And noticed other details, too. The whites of the wolf’s eyes were showing, teeth bared, sides heaving with effort, beautiful coat ragged in places with what looked like bits of twig and burrs, pads of her paws red and raw as she soared over the ground. The silent snap as something hit the wolf made Arrow flinch involuntarily. All that vitality and life disappeared instantly.
Eyes narrowed in concentration, Arrow examined the pale, lifeless body on the ground. Apart from the raw patches on her feet and hands, and a few minor scratches on her body from the undergrowth, there was no obvious wound on Marianne’s body. Whatever had hit her had killed her without leaving a mark.
“Magic,” Matthias growled, too close to her ear. She was too tired and too curious to flinch.
“Not any magic that I know,” Arrow replied almost absently, stomach unsettled.
“Not Erith, you’re saying?”
“I do not know. Just that I do not recognise this magic that can kill without leaving a trace.”
He made a low sound, unconvinced, and padded away, eyes on the shadowy figure now emerging from the trees.
Moving at normal speed, the shadow’s awkward gait was obvious. Frowning again, Arrow wondered how such an ungainly thing had chased the powerful, fast wolf across the mountain, and for how far.
~
The sky was nearly full dark overhead, edges of the reconstruction beginning to fade, and Arrow was trembling with effort when Zachary and Matthias were eventually satisfied that they had learned all they could. No one mentioned the damning object left next to Marianne’s body.
“That will do,” Matthias told her.
Trying not to sigh too obviously and reveal the depth of her relief, worried the ‘kin might be as intolerant of weakness as the Erith, Arrow sank to her knees on the ground next to the bare patch where Marianne’s scarf lay. Using some power, she carefully cleansed the scarf, removed all trace of blood and earth, before wrapping it again, setting it aside.
Drawing her knife, she cut her finger, calling a little strength from the mountain to dissipate the spell and gave her thanks to the mountain for its aid. The mountain responded with another caress of warm air across her face, and a trickle of warmth through her veins, making her aware of just how cold she had become.
Over her head the images faded to nothing, leaving the space occupied only by two ‘kin and a very weary magician.
Arrow closed her eyes a moment, keeping her head down, every part of her being aching with weariness. She hated this part. The dragging exhaustion. The vulnerability. The leaden weight in her centre where her seals were. Her wards were a memory, worn away with her magic, senses open to the world, nothing between her and the whirl of emotion that had passed through the place, the scrape of anger from the Prime and his son, the cold of winter, the depth of the mountain.
If she had been pure-blood Erith there would be a full cadre of White Guard around her just now. Trained to work with Erith magicians, the warriors would have wards set to protect her raw senses, putting themselves, with their disciplined minds, between her and any danger. And whilst she was being fanciful, perhaps they would have some Erith tea for her, and a cloak to warm her.
Instead she was in shifkin territory with two enormously powerful ‘kin who had every reason to detest the Erith and not a single scrap of power left to defend herself.
Eventually she regained some calm and pushed herself to her feet, a little surprised by the ‘kin’s patience. She returned the paper wrapped bundle to Matthias who handed it straight to his father. Bending to pick up her bag she hissed involuntarily at the effort, heat surging in her face at her weakness. When she had settled the bag over her shoulder, a dead weight against her, she turned to find them watching her with keen, bright eyes.
“The Taellan sent you,” Zachary stated. She nodded. He moved closer, absolutely silent to her too-sensitive ears, whether through his natural magic or years of practice she could
not tell. Predator. She stayed as still as possible, allowing him close, allowing him to take a few deep breaths, catching her personal scent to remember her. He hissed, an angry sound. Concentrating on not flinching, trying not to let her fear show, she kept her eyes down.
“You reek of Erith,” his voice was dark, “but you don’t smell like Erith.”
“I live with the Erith,” she said. Absolute truth.
“But you are not Erith.”
“No, Prime.”
“And not human. What are you?” From another being, at another time, that would be unforgivably rude. In this place, it was a question that required response.
“I am the Taellan’s representative. Of mixed blood. My lineage is struck from the records.”
She was mostly Erith, however much Seggerat might wish to deny it, yet she had enough other blood in her to mark her forever apart from a race that took pride in their heritage and purity. One non-Erith grandparent, a long-dead human woman, and she was shunned. Perhaps her parents would have protected her if they had lived more than a few months past her birth. Perhaps not. No one talked about her parents. Or her lineage. There was no record of her at all among the Erith.
That lack of record was an old shame and should not still hurt. The Erith loved records. Every Erith, or servant of the Erith, knew where they belonged, the lines of their heritage meticulously recorded. Apart from her. Should not still hurt, she reminded herself, even as her eyes stung.
The Prime absorbed that information in silence and took a few more deep, even breaths, testing her scent. His face, when she glanced across, gave nothing away.
“You did this thing on your own? Without aid?” He gestured around them, recalling the translucent shapes of the reconstruction.
“The mountain lent its aid,” she clarified and saw that he understood that perfectly. She bowed her head. “Otherwise, yes, alone.”
“And you don’t think the Erith killed Marianne?” The Prime’s control was excellent, but her senses were still open. There was a vein under the name. Not quite grief. Mostly anger. Not the new, raw anger of the recently bereaved but something older. Arrow had no time to follow her curiosity as to why the Prime might have been so angry, for so long, at his mate.
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