“My lord,” Kallish bowed, discomfort evident, and Arrow wondered if the warrior would truly defy the Taellan’s wishes. “Your safety is my primary concern.”
“What’s the problem?” the Prime asked, tone edged. Although no one was translating for him, ‘kin were masters at reading body language and tone and, more than that, Arrow suspected the Prime understood at least some Erith. He was too wise in the ways of the Erith. “What have you found?”
“Nothing good.” Matthias was grim, echoing Arrow’s words. “Arrow and I walked a little along the street. It’s got a really bad feeling. My skin is still crawling.”
The Prime absorbed that information with a serious expression, assessing both his son and what he could see of the street, which looked harmless at this distance, only the shaded sky showing anything wrong.
“A feeling?” Juinis, to Arrow’s relief, was enquiring rather than scornful, words relayed by the House retainer.
“The spirits of this place have been violated, my lord.” Arrow put the explanation into terms the Erith would appreciate.
“By what?” he demanded.
“That I do not yet know.” Arrow exchanged a glance with Kallish, who was frowning. “My lord, I fear the worst. Marianne Stillwater was a confident, capable woman. She came here in apprehension and left in terror.” And Arrow wished she had been able to give that information privately to Marianne’s widower, however estranged. Zachary did not look insulted. His focus sharpened.
“She did not scare easily,” he commented, more for Juinis’ benefit than anything else. It had little effect on the Taellan.
“Well, let us go and find what so disturbed the lady,” the Taellan said impatiently. Sparing a dark glance to Kallish, he flicked a speck of dust from one sleeve. “Neither the Prime nor I came here simply to leave.”
“Naturally not, my lord,” Arrow began, choosing her words with care, oath-spells waking. Protection of the Taellan was as much her duty as the White Guard’s. For all that he was protected by a full, senior, cadre, she could not allow him to wander down the street without warning. “There is something here, my lord. As you can see, there is a darkness in the street, and an accumulation of energy that is causing static in the air.”
“And you have some idea what it is?” Zachary asked.
“Some things should not be spoken,” Arrow answered. Juinis’ eyes narrowed, irritated. The Prime cast a glance around the White Guard, seeing their intent, serious faces, fingers twitching for weapons, sparks of amber prominent in their eyes.
“What can you tell us?” There was an undertone promising violence if he did not start getting answers soon.
She shifted her weight, considering how best to answer, sword balanced between her shoulder blades, invisible to the ‘kin in its dormant state even if its energy did draw their eyes from time to time.
“This street is watched,” she began, her back to the street. “Along the left-hand side there is a mostly intact house with a closed door. Outside that house there are runes drawn. By the same hand that set the spells on the mountain.”
“Another trap?” There was no doubt in him, accepting her assessment. In contrast, Juinis was growing impatient with a conversation he did not understand, even in translation.
“No. They appeared more as containment. They are almost gone, though.” And that was a worry.
“Containment?” Kallish was pale, mouth tight. The word in Erith had many nuances, and the warrior used the one which implied a prison.
“Yes, svegraen.”
“I think a cadre of warriors should be able to deal with whatever is there,” Juinis pressed. “We will get no answers standing here.” He twitched his coat, settling the folds around him, and took a step forward.
“My lord,” Arrow protested, side-stepping so that she was directly in his path. There was an audible intake of breath from the cadre, anger sparking in the lord’s eyes. She ducked her head, made a respectful bow, ear tips burning. “My lord. There is great danger. If you wish for answers, then some of the White Guard and I should go ahead and clear the way.” It was the best compromise she could come up with.
“You are presuming to tell me what to do?” His voice was low, all the arrogance of his long and pure lineage behind him. She bowed again, keeping her eyes down.
“By no means. I would clear a path that you may walk safely.”
It was a much grace as she could manage. She had never had to become familiar with the niceties of the Erith Court where a quick tongue was essential. Set apart from the Erith in her human clothing, she was keenly aware of Zachary’s interest and wariness. Juinis might be ignoring her warnings, not wanting to be seen as weak before the ‘kin, but the ‘kin were taking their cue from their Prime, who was taking her seriously, and the unsettled White Guard.
The White Guard were on a hair-trigger, and dangerous for it, struggling with the conflict between their duty to protect the lord and horror at her presumption.
“My lord,” Kallish broke the prickly silence, voice pitched low for Juinis, “it would be well to send her ahead.” Neatly reminding the Taellan that she was disposable, Arrow thought sourly. At least the warrior had given her a gender. At the same time Arrow had to admire Kallish’s diplomacy offering the lord a way of saving face.
She realised that Juinis was not going to heed his guardian’s sensible advice as the lord’s colour rose, eyes flickering with amber.
“I will not hide behind any half-breed,” he hissed to Kallish. Arrow suppressed a sigh. It seemed the lord’s pride was more important to him. “What say you, Prime?”
Arrow clenched her jaw, holding in a useless exclamation. The Erith lord had as good as challenged the Prime’s courage. A challenge that most powerful ‘kin would not let pass. The most powerful ‘kin alive lifted a brow, eyes assessing, and considered the matter with every appearance of calm.
“I’m inclined to listen to the lady,” Zachary said at length. “We’ve encountered some trouble on the way, as I told you. Perhaps we should ask Arrow to go ahead a few paces?”
Arrow held her breath, waiting for Juinis’ answer. It was a fair compromise, and perhaps Juinis would heed the Prime’s advice where he would not listen to a White Guard cadre leader and a war mage.
“Very well.” Juinis’ colour was returning to normal. He gave Arrow an impatient flick of his hand, ordering her forward.
She inclined her head and turned, blowing out a breath as she hunted in her bag for chalk. Kneeling and drawing on her power, she drew a bold, protective rune on the road surface. The lines held, glowing slightly as they set. Whatever was in the house had not crept this far.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was an odd procession, and slow, Arrow going a few paces forward, drawing a rune, waiting for it to set before the group followed, waiting at the last rune before they moved. The White Guard had wards over the entire group, amber sparks crackling as Erith magic met the static charge of the growing pressure in the air the further into the street they want. The ‘kin were wary, hands on weapons, but walking within the Erith wards, more than one fang bared as the air became heavier.
When the static was bad enough that her hair was escaping its pins and trailing across her face, and she was still some way from the house, she paused, made an extra rune, and opened her second sight, overlaying on her first sight. The sensation of being watched was stronger, but there was nothing moving in the second world that she could see. At least not yet. She did her best to ignore the twist of her stomach, her bone-deep conviction there was something awful waiting ahead and kept moving forward. The Taellan had given his orders.
When she was only a few paces from the faded runes in front of the house, further than she and Matthias had reached, the bold lines of her own rune fizzed and died, swallowed into the road surface. She tried another, to the same effect.
The group behind was still at the last rune she had drawn.
She stayed kneeling, put her hand on the road, hissi
ng as the surface warmed, moving under her touch. It did not appear to move in either sight, rough surface cracked and broken. Her fingertips were telling her that it was smooth, vibrating under her touch, almost like animal hide. Across her back the sword pulsed, startling her, reacting to something she could not see.
Drawing a slow breath in she opened her second sight fully, first world fading to shapes and depth, overlaid with twisted darkness. Ahead of her the house, barely contained by the fading runes, was a writhing twist, a blunt awareness watching through windows and the opening door. Something out of phase with this existence, brought through a magically-created fissure.
~
“Incursion!” A word she never thought she would have to say. The Erith’s worst fears come to pass. A tendril, an awareness, from the plane beyond brought into this existence.
Behind her she heard Erith weapons drawn, felt the snap as wards were raised to full force, the low snarl of angry ‘kin, and, distantly, an argument starting.
There was no time for that. The house’s containment failed with a final shiver, runes fading to nothing, and the twisting mass surged out of the house. No longer just a sliver brought into phase, it was growing with each passing moment.
Freed of its bindings it was enormous in the second world, presence looming and yet barely there to her sight even with her senses fully opened. It slid down the house’s front steps, along the pavement, growing as it moved, drawing in power from everything it touched.
Mindless and wordless it was just hunger and want and age. So old. Weighted with centuries.
She rose to her feet, wards flaring silver. Tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, ears ringing with the force of her pulse, limbs trembling, scream trapped in her throat. She wanted to run. Alone her chances were slim. The sword at her back. The spell that was the final thing all Academy graduates learned.
In the midst of terror greater than any baelthras, a memory of the Preceptor’s voice, stern and cold, at the final tests before the Trials, though she had not known about the Trials then. Fifteenth cycle graduates do not run. Fifteenth cycle graduates are the only ones who may, one day, be entitled to the cloak of a war mage. The last line of light between the Erith and the dark.
She wondered if the Preceptor had ever faced a demon, whether his iron words were borne of experience or book-learning. When it came to the Preceptor she was no longer sure.
There was no running for her. Oath-bound to the Taellan.
And more. Incursion meant no-one and no-where was safe. The surging black would destroy everything in its path. It might start with the Erith, but its hunger would not ease. The corruption would spread to humans and ‘kin. Unchecked, the city would become a wasteland, the people who had struggled through plague and war cut down by something beyond their understanding. Hallveran had suffered enough. And once the city was gone, the black would roll out, gathering strength the more it destroyed. It was already so powerful it hurt to look at it.
And she had made a silent promise, what felt like months ago, to Marianne Stillwater, to find her killer. This thing was in her way.
Determination kept her back straight and facing towards her opponent.
Slowly, trying to make the movement look casual, she raised her hand to her shoulder. The darkness was a stride away, filling her vision, static crackle of its presence sending her hair in wild trails around her head, fizzing off her wards, sparks of silver cast across the darkness. Inside the mass was something other, watching. Not the sharp awareness of sentience. Instead it was primal. Hunger, want, and greed.
The sword hilt under her sweat-slick palm was warm, eager to work. It might as well be a splinter. She was too small. Insignificant. The thing was growing even more.
Not watching her, though. Its attention was elsewhere.
Turning her head a fraction, she saw an Erith reaching forward, pale amber outline surrounded by wards, and a cluster of other Erith behind him, trying to reach him. Juinis. Drawn to the darkness, as some Erith were, entranced, eagerly reaching for death.
“Get back!” she yelled, voice lost in the black, and drew her sword. The flare of silver caught the creature’s attention for a moment, one long strand pausing in its reach for Juinis. The lord was still moving forward, brushing against the creature’s smoky mass, bright amber dulled at once.
Panic flared. The death of a Taellan would be catastrophic. Arrow stabbed forward with her sword, light flaring as it met the dark.
She poured power into the blade. For a moment it seemed to work. The darkness writhed, unheard sound echoing through her, shaking each bone, retreating from her sword.
Dimly she was aware of the Erith moving away, physically dragging the lord, the sparks of ‘kin magic moving away with them. Faint shouts reached her, another argument among them. They kept moving away. Leaving her.
Alone, the being’s entire attention turned to her. Cold. Cunning. Spirits, it was big. As big as the mountain, rising over her until it was the only thing in the world. All focused on her, the only living thing in its reach.
It swarmed over her. Its presence drove her to her knees, sword wavering in front of her. Both hands on the grip. The sword tip pressed down. She called more power. Nothing came. Everything had been spent in trying to save Juinis.
The sword’s tip was against the ground. Nothing, not even the oath-spells, shooting pain into her wrists, could make her rise.
Hunger and want enveloped her. No light. Wards gone. The barest sliver of her sword a physical weight in the second world, the only sign of life.
Deep inside, the seals rippled.
No.
She pushed back, settling the seals. They kept her hidden, kept her alive. Kept the Erith from seeing what she was. Kept the Erith, already wary at her very existence, from killing her.
The darkness pressed. She was flat on the ground now, that warm surface that rippled like a creature’s hide. Her fingers ached from gripping the hilt.
The seals shifted.
No. She wanted to live.
The demon pressed harder. It was against her skin now, eating into her pores. Claws scored, tearing flesh. Bloodless wounds in the second world. Ripping her open so it could feed. It raged as it found nothing to eat, all her power gone, and dug harder. She was nothing but a heartbeat and pain.
The pressing dark closed in further, a tightening band around her lungs. No room to breathe. Vision wavered.
Deep within, something shifted. She wanted to live. She had always wanted to live. To feel the sun on her face, the rough texture of bark under her fingers, the current of power that ran through the world, the freedom and joy of spell crafting.
She. Wanted. To. Live.
The seals inside tore with brilliant agony that had her gasping, back arching, eyes blind as silver consumed them. Between one heartbeat and the next the well inside her roared to life.
The sword, extension of her will, flared too bright to look at, slicing through the darkness that gripped her, cutting off talons and ties, demon screaming in a hollow non-sound that made her ears bleed, and she rose, struck again, cutting into it, seeking its heart, finally remembering the spells she needed, blinding silver sparks showering over the creature, catching it, holding it.
“You will have no purchase in this place. Your anchor will be torn up. Your substance will be destroyed. Your soul will return to the place from whence it came. This I declare. This I bind. This I put my will to.”
Her voice was the barest thread of sound, her power blazing, shaped by her will.
A war mage’s spirit sword and a war mage’s will. The most powerful defence the Erith had against the black.
The demon roared, shaking the earth, and she would not yield. The mass surged against her binding, a physical weight of spirit. And she did not yield. Every part of it pushed against her, sending her sliding backwards, feet digging into the ground. And she did not yield.
She repeated the spell, aching silver eyes unblinking, voice stronger, that we
ll of power she had hidden for so long filling every part of her, sealing the demon-made scars.
The words poured out of her in a loop as she fought to get hold of the darkness, to find the heart so she could send it back to whatever realm it had clawed out from.
The darkness receded a fraction, coated in silver, tiny threads that would not yield, no matter how much the thing twisted, groaning as the banishment spell began to take hold.
Three repetitions were supposedly key. She was well beyond that. Onto her ninth recital at least, voice croaking with effort. The thing writhed. The silver threads were thicker now, bars of a cage. With a last, growling, effort, the thing surged forward, trying to get past. Failed. Finally contained. She stepped forward, body moving smoothly as a warrior’s, arm coming back then thrusting forward, pushing the gleaming length of her blade through the cage walls into the heart of the thing.
The solid dark mass convulsed, tearing the sword from her hand, losing substance, fragmenting into thousands of tiny pieces that faded as silver light shot through them. The noiseless roar dimmed.
Arrow felt the pressure lift from her chest, raised her silver eyes up and saw bright sky high ahead piercing the last of the darkness. Success.
Energy vanished, body tumbling boneless to the ground.
She lay on her back, panting. So that was a demon. The thing most feared by the Erith. And she had survived. Barely. Every part ached. The physical wounds may have sealed but her mind was still catching up with that.
Her body felt strange. With the seals gone, utterly destroyed, the vast well of power inside that she had hidden so thoroughly and for so long was settling back into its proper place, mind turning, puzzle parts of her being properly fitted together at last. The dragging tiredness of carrying the seals was gone, replaced with the honest exhaustion of hard work.
The Erith would want her dead for certain, now. She had hidden for so long, since she had understood what they would do to her, how afraid they were of her difference from them, and the silver power she carried, Seggerat and Eimille, their tempers blazing out of control, shouting an argument over her head, not caring she was there, hearing every word. Well she had heard. And understood they would kill her if they thought she was dangerous. Her younger self had formed a plan, and executed it, crafting the seals in the night and silence. So many years ago.
Concealed_The Taellaneth Page 15