Concealed_The Taellaneth

by Vanessa Nelson

  Today there were no students. The hum of activity in the Academy was kept at bay through the solid wooden door and the dampening spells the Preceptor had crafted into the room’s surfaces.

  She had arrived at the study at the appointed hour, and stood in front of the Preceptor’s enormous desk, waiting for his attention. He was scowling over what looked like a letter, elbow resting on a set of parchments; thirteenth cycle student homework, she thought, reading some of the work upside down and wincing slightly at some of the runes drawn. At least one of the students would most likely have to repeat the cycle, as, despite their advanced place in the Academy’s classes, they seemed incapable of drawing a straight line.

  With Evellan’s attention occupied, Arrow took a moment to study the room and the master magician. The piles of parchment and scrolls on his desk were higher than she remembered. The Academy’s deputy, Teaching Mistress Seivella, was absent and had been for some time, which would explain the additional administration and perhaps a little of the tiredness betrayed by the shadows under his eyes. The lady’s absence did not explain the faint lines of strain around the Preceptor’s mouth, or the unease shown in the shadows. Usually coiled contentedly about his robes, wisps of shadow were curling about in tendrils from the dark cloth, constantly in motion.

  “Blast the man. He seems to have written this on a hunt. Arrow, come, see what you make of it.” He held the letter up. Accustomed to the request, Arrow accepted the letter, recognising the hand at once. Gilean vo Presien, a highly respected war mage and one of the Queen’s closest advisors. Gilean and Evellan kept up an irregular correspondence, each complaining that the other’s handwriting was impossible to read.

  This letter was unusually bad. There were ink blots spattered across the surface and several crossed out words as well as a dark stain on one side of the parchment that might have been blood. Gilean was usually on the move, travelling through the Erith heartlands, sometimes not heard from for months at an end.

  “From the third paragraph,” the Preceptor prompted.

  “Yes, my lord. Let me see …” She frowned a moment more, piecing together the words, before beginning. “The testing ground for the young hunters has been … recovered from the grasses. It is quite remarkable how quickly they grow. The grasses, I mean. The hunters seem to get younger with each passing turn ...”

  She paused as a there was a sharp knock at the door followed by another person entering the room, not waiting for the Preceptor’s permission. Someone expected, then, otherwise they would not have got past the room’s wards. Evellan waved for Arrow to continue.

  “Passing turn of the seasons …” Arrow paused, trying to make out the next sentence. One of the most highly respected mages alive appeared to have written about red spotted cows and she was sure that could not be right.

  “A letter from my cousin?” Kester vo Halsfeld asked, joining Arrow beside the desk. He was dressed far more plainly than when she had seen him last in the elder’s study, wearing an approximation of the White Guard’s day uniform, charcoal grey embellished, in place of braids of office and awards of merit, with a leaf pattern. He brought with him the scent of weapons oil and cardamom and did not seem disturbed that he stood on equal footing with her in front of the Preceptor’s desk, giving her a nod as she glanced across. Stiffening, caught staring, Arrow returned her focus to the letter.

  “Indeed. When you are next in touch, please tell him that his writing is growing worse with age. With the practice he has had over the years, the opposite should be true.” Evellan held out a hand for the letter and Arrow returned it. He stared at the scrawl for a moment before shaking his head. “I will have someone else look at this. I cannot believe he means spotted cows, red or otherwise.”

  Arrow hid a smile, wishing she could be there when Gilean and Evellan had one of their rare meetings.

  “The elder asked me to attend,” Kester said.

  “Yes, he sent a message to advise me.” The Preceptor’s eyes remained on the letter in his hands, voice dry as the elder’s usual tone, and Arrow saw a shallow, metal dish to one side of the desk with some burned fragments of parchment. Evellan had not liked the elder’s message and Arrow wondered what message the Chief Scribe had actually written.

  Risking a quick, sideways glance, Arrow saw what might have been a smile cross the Taellan’s face before it resumed a neutral expression of polite attention. She wondered how long the Preceptor and the former White Guard had been friends.

  “Arrow, bring the spell mirror across and set up your record.”

  “My lord.” She bowed slightly and moved to comply. The Preceptor’s spell mirror was the largest she had ever seen, wider and taller than she was, held in a plain frame of black wood which had been set with wheels at some point in the past, making it easy to move.

  By the time she had set up the record to run through the mirror, the Preceptor had risen and joined Kester.

  “It should be possible to show this in three dimensions,” Arrow suggested. She saw the Taellan’s brows lift, perhaps in surprise at the idea, or perhaps at her speaking up without being asked.

  “Very well. Take that side.” Between them, she and Evellan lowered the mirror to lie on its back on the ground and the images which had been flat, contained on the mirror’s surface, sprang to full-size life, the Preceptor merging with the shadowed figure for a moment as the recording ran on. Kester carefully removed his hand from a weapon hilt, a hint of colour in his face.

  The afternoon passed with the Preceptor taking his time to inspect the recording for himself, firing questions to Arrow that she did her best to answer. When he was satisfied he had seen enough he paused, standing opposite Arrow across Marianne’s body.

  “And you did this thing alone?” he asked. It was an echo of the question the Prime had asked, but with a more pointed slant. The images, sharp and vivid, lay between them.

  “The mountain is very strong,” Arrow told him. He was frowning, the coiling shadows settled into a series of tight curls around his robes, motionless for the first time that afternoon. She waited. A magician of her apparent level of ability and power should perhaps have struggled more with the spell. And he had no ability to test the strength of Farraway Mountain. He could only test her. A faint scent of burnt amber crossed the room, the sparks in the Preceptor’s eyes growing as he stared at her. The familiar brush of his power, strong and certain, crossed hers. Testing. Probing. Not for the first time.

  She endured, confident in her own wards and the seals deep inside, invisible to anyone but her. He would see what she wanted him, and the rest of the Erith, to see, which was a mage of middling power. It was rare for someone of average power to pass all of the Academy’s classes but there was precedent; some of the Teaching Masters and Mistresses in the building around them possessed less apparent power than Arrow and had graduated through hard work.

  The oath spells in her blood stirred in response to their maker’s power, stretching like a cat, then purring softly. Her temper rose in response, the despised magic turning contentedly in her body.

  Satisfied that the oath spells were intact, and unable to find anything amiss, the Preceptor’s expression did not lighten. His face was tight, intellect and instinct in conflict.

  “My lord,” Kester broke the silence, “do you know what magic this shadow used?”

  “No,” he answered, not taking his attention from Arrow.

  “Where might we learn?” the younger lord persisted. “Such abilities seem dangerous.”

  “They are.” Evellan turned to Kester. Arrow was careful not to relax. Another dangerous moment had passed. There would be more. “The Archives might tell us more.”

  “The scribe’s archives were destroyed,” Kester said, confused.

  “So I heard.” The sour smile might have been satisfaction. The Chief Scribe was not well liked and had shunned Evellan’s assistance with the scriptorium wards. “The Academy has its own. Arrow, see what you can learn.”

 
; Dismissed, Arrow left, still more questions bottled up now laced with unease. Despite his flat denial, she thought Evellan did know something about the camouflage. There was a possibility, slim as it was, that Evellan had conspired with the Taellan in Marianne Stillwater’s death. Arrow’s lips thinned, brow creasing before she smoothed it quickly, frustration making her strides quicker than normal. There was so much hidden from her. Neither the White Guard or Taellan would tell their secrets. That, she expected. But the Academy took pride, publicly declared, in teaching its students about all forms of magic. There was clearly at least one form missing if what she had seen on the mountain was anything to go by, and the Academy’s Preceptor had not been surprised to find an unknown form of magic.

  The highest authority on magic among the Erith, the Preceptor most certainly had the resources to find a White Guard medallion, and access to the knowledge and power to conceal himself from the mountain to kill Marianne, even if she could not understand, yet, how or why he might have done so.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Academy Archives, a labyrinth of shielded tunnels under the Academy, yielded no answers and Arrow headed to her appointment at Marianne’s residence in Lix with her silent promise to the dead woman to find her killer ringing in her mind, hoping that finding out more about Marianne would enable her to keep that promise. Even if no one else heard it, a magician’s promise was as binding on her as the oath spells.

  Lix was a sprawling city, crawling further over the land each year, held back from the Taellaneth only by the treaties that bound the Erith and humans to peace. Even so, the city seemed larger every time Arrow visited, the humans greedily expanding into the land they held between the ‘kin and the Erith. The territories which had seemed generous when they were recorded into the treaties now appeared small. Humans could never have enough land, it seemed.

  Marianne Stillwater’s residence and its surroundings were a sharp contrast to the simplicity of Farraway Township. The address was within a walled estate, one of a half-dozen or so former stretches of land claimed and bounded by long-dead human lords and ladies, the walls now warded, and the land now occupied by expensive, exclusive residences that rivalled the Taellan’s manors in craftsmanship. Entrance to the estate was strictly monitored, gates manned by human magic users of mid-level power and skill, with only one road all the way through, winding in gentle curves through mature trees and high fences discreetly screening the buildings from the road and from each other.

  It was a far cry from her usual visits to Lix, going to the business heart of the city surrounded by towering buildings and too many people, all so busy, noisy conversations, crowds smothering her, fresh scents of the Taellaneth replaced by the stench of exhaust fumes and the casually discarded waste humans seemed to generate. Or visits to tall apartment buildings, tracing people the Erith wanted found, too many people pressing about and not one single ward on half the buildings.

  This was beautiful. A stillness that reminded her of the Taellaneth gardens, though no Erith would admit the comparison. The wards were well kept, the streets free of debris, and she could not hear a single voice. Peace. A place of harmony, free of the discordant politics of the Erith. The stillness reminded her of the cottage where she had lived with Nassaran, tucked away in a far corner of the vast grounds of the Taellaneth, away from other people. The cottage had long been abandoned, the one time she had been able to return to it, no sign of the old man since he left her at the Academy for training. Still, her soul eased at the reminder, her lips curving in a small smile.

  Following the shifkin’s directions, the residence she had stopped outside belied its age, a modern construction humming with electrical power that brushed her senses, designed to look as old as the original manor. The building was set back from the road, behind iron gates that opened with the smooth hum she associated with electric motors as she approached, boots crunching on the gravel as she made her way up the curved driveway.

  The garden was stark in winter, only a light dusting of snow at Lix’s lower altitude, the plants mostly bare twigs or cut back to clumps of dry spikes, trees bare of leaves. Here and there was a wild, sharp scent that Arrow associated with ‘kin, hints that a human might not notice. Despite the leafy surroundings, the rest of the estate was almost exclusively occupied by humans and Arrow wondered how many of her neighbours had known what Marianne was.

  The bright red front door, colour standing out among the dormant garden, opened as she approached, and she checked involuntarily in her stride.

  Two people waited for her. A petite, immaculately groomed human female, blond hair shining gold from the artificial light behind her, and the Prime.

  “Good day.” Arrow made her feet move forward.

  “Hello, Arrow.” The Prime was self-contained, all the savage nature she had encountered on the mountain tamped down behind a polite facade. She did not trust the facade, or the fact that she could not pick up any of his feelings. “This is Lucy Steers.”

  “Miss Steers.” Arrow nodded, and, after a small pause, took the hand offered to her in a brief, polite handshake. Erith did not touch her, and Erith did not shake hands. The sensation of another’s skin against hers was odd, an unfamiliar assault on her senses, the human’s hand smooth and well-maintained against her own roughened skin, her wards prickling at the proximity.

  “Arrow? That’s an unusual name.” The woman meant nothing by it, simply making polite conversation, but Arrow felt her spine stiffen, the hated Erith word tripping through her mind before she squashed it.

  “It is what I am called,” she replied politely.

  “And you work for the Erith.” The woman’s lip curled slightly. “What interest do the Erith have in Marianne’s death?”

  It was a good question, Arrow thought, and one she would also like to ask the Erith. She would not get a straight answer, so had to speculate. With the ‘kin suspicious that there had been Erith involvement in the death, the Erith were using their most disposable servant to keep an eye on matters. A guess only. But she knew how most of the Taellan felt about her, and how most of the Erith felt about the ‘kin.

  “They did not tell me,” Arrow answered honestly, “but have asked me to aid the shifkin in finding the truth.”

  Lucy was frowning, unhappy, and opened her mouth to say something, cut off by Zachary.

  “The Erith don’t share secrets,” he commented, voice even. Lucy glared at him for a moment before turning back to Arrow.

  “Zach said you need to get a sense of Marianne. What do you need?” There was a challenge under the words. This woman disliked her. Arrow was used to that. The dislike of the Erith was more unusual, but not unique.

  Arrow tilted her head slightly, considering the question. She was outside the house yet could feel the energy of the house brushing up against her skin. “A little time to meditate,” she told Lucy.

  “We’ll go for a walk,” Zachary said, ignoring the fact that Lucy was not dressed for walking. Lucy gave him a sharp glance, cast a look at her heeled shoes and gave a slight sigh.

  “Let me get my coat.” She disappeared into the house.

  “Lucy shared the house with Marianne,” Zachary offered. Arrow nodded, not sure what to say. “We won’t be long.” Perhaps he had noticed Lucy’s glance at her feet.

  “I should not need long, thank you.”

  The pair, an awkward match to Arrow’s eyes, even without all her senses engaged, made their way down the driveway, Lucy a little unsteady on her feet in her heels, Zachary making no move whatsoever to steady her. There was an odd undercurrent to that relationship that she could not pinpoint. Not the tension of secret lovers, which had a different texture to it. Something, though.

  ~

  Shaking off distractions, Arrow stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind her, artificial light yellow to her eyes, standing for a moment to absorb the energy, opening her senses a fraction. This was the first time she had been in a human’s home, the unfamiliar hum of electrical
current, human magic of the wards and the scent of artificial perfume all vying for her attention. Under that were the personalities of the residence’s owners, vivid and bold. Satisfied there was enough here, she slid her messenger bag from her shoulder and sat cross-legged on the black-and-white stone-flagged entrance hall, slipping into a meditative trance.

  The snick of the door closing, loud in her too-sensitive ears, snapped her out of the trance and back to the first world.

  “You could have gone further into the house.” Zachary sounded almost amused. The back of her neck prickled at having him standing behind her.

  “There was enough here, and I did not want to intrude,” she answered, getting off the floor with slightly stiff limbs. She could not meet his eyes.

  “Did you get what you needed?” Lucy asked, sharp undertone to her words, perhaps angry at the casual violation of her home.

  “Yes, thank you. I have a clear sense of Marianne.” And still could not look at Marianne’s widower.

  “You would,” he said darkly, that old anger back. “She had been living here for ten years.”

  “Ten years?” Arrow found herself holding the Prime’s eyes. The residence had already told her that Lucy and Marianne were far from simply room-mates. This place had been inhabited by a couple, both strong, passionate personalities. That Marianne had broken faith with her mate had shaken Arrow, as the Erith believed ‘kin mated for life, something about the bonds they created making it impossible to break. Arrow had always been a little sceptical of that, as most magic could be undone with enough effort. The sense of vibrancy in the building had felt immediate, fresh, and new, not ten years in the making.