Revealed: The Taellaneth - Book 2

by Vanessa Nelson

  The wards were passive at the moment, suspended in purpose, settled around the bricks and windows of the residence, a thick snarl around the door. The whole residence appeared dormant, as though it knew its master was absent. Arrow frowned slightly, having expected far more active wards to be in place.

  She took a step forward and watched as the wards stretched. Another step and another and she was within ten paces of the door, the wards still passive. Calling a flare of power to her hand she sent it ahead of her and watched as the wards parted for her. Frowning now, she kept walking, the spark of power in front of her, until she reached the door.

  Putting a bare hand on a magician’s door was a recipe for trouble normally, but something about the ease with which she had got through the wards so far made her do just that. The door opened without a sound, a shadowed hallway appearing beyond.

  “Any luck?” Kester vo Halsfeld’s voice broke her attention. She dimmed her second sight and turned, finding him standing with Xeveran at the edge of the wards. The Taellan had changed into White Guard clothing, and not that of a novice either. The lord’s clothing was moulded to his form, bearing more than one repaired scar that she could see even at the distance. As well as the long dagger at his hip, the sort favoured by many White Guard, a pair of hilts showed over his shoulders.

  “The wards seem to be keyed for me, my lord,” she told him.

  “Is it safe to enter?”

  “Possibly.”

  He took a wary step forward. The wards flared, sparking even in the first world. He froze at once.

  “A moment, my lord.” Keeping her spark of power, Arrow made her way back across the grass, recasting her power as she reached the lord, sending a thread around his arm. “Try now.”

  He took a step forward, and another. The wards remained passive.

  “Most curious. Why would the Preceptor allow you access to his residence?”

  “I do not know, my lord. If you will follow me.” She turned her back against further questions, having several ideas, and none of them good, about why Lord Evellan would allow a war mage easy access to his most private space.

  Crossing the threshold, she was relieved when the wards remained passive, simply allowing her and Kester deeper into the building. As they walked she kept her second sight open, watching the building’s protections move in response to their presence.

  “Access is limited,” she commented. There was a wall of shielding across one open corridor that she thought led to the sleeping chambers, and another across what she thought was the door to his parlour.

  “He is a private man,” the Taellan answered.

  “Yes.” Arrow wondered what it had cost him to let Vailla and her family have access to the residence for their cleaning spells and inspection. Eimille would have been delighted to get a glimpse into this private space. A quick glance around showed nothing personal, though. The space was scrupulously clean and, apart from the thick layers of magic, devoid of personality. So perhaps Evellan had not given too much away by allowing his vestran’s family inside.

  “We have access to his study.” Arrow nodded in the right direction, then belatedly added, “My lord.”

  “You may use my name, Arrow,” he said. He was walking behind her, so she could not be certain but thought he was amused.

  “That would not be appropriate,” she answered, then added, “svegraen.”

  “Better, I suppose,” he said. Or she thought he said, his voice low enough the words were muffled, and she was not sure she was meant to hear it.

  The study door opened as they approached it, swinging inward in silence, raising the hairs on her neck. The Preceptor was not known for making things easy and this whole matter had been far too easy until now.

  Her spine was prickling with unease as they entered the study. She had never been invited into the Preceptor’s residence before now; few people were. With the Academy so close, Lord Evellan spent most of his waking time there, or so she had thought.

  One look around the study and she found herself gaping like a first cycle student. The study was as big as the one at the Academy, lit by large windows which looked onto a patch of wilderness and trees, and glimmer lights which flared gently to life as she walked past them to allow Kester access to the room. Two walls were covered with bookshelves, full of leather-bound volumes, rolled parchments and scattered pieces of parchment.

  “This might take us longer than two days,” Kester said thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps,” Arrow recovered her poise, turning her attention to the large desk in the centre of the room, “and perhaps not.” Nose wrinkling at the faint smell the air held, she crossed to the desk, folding her hands behind her back before peering at the scattered contents. Amid the mess of papers, including some student essays, was a haphazard pile of papers, containing at least one slim volume, topped by a piece of folded parchment on which the Preceptor had scrawled one word, “Arrow.”

  “He was expecting you,” Kester said. The Taellan was close by at her shoulder, and she had not heard him move.

  “Yes. You may wish to step back, svegraen.”

  “He would lay a trap?”

  “Not necessarily, but the Preceptor’s lessons are not always safe.”

  “Very well.” The faintest shimmer of amber showed as he stepped back, engaging his own wards.

  Satisfied that he would be as safe as she could make him, Arrow turned her attention back to the parchment, lifting it carefully, examining it in first and second sight. There was a spell coiled within its folds, but it was not harmful, so she opened the paper.

  A breeze of the Preceptor’s power rose out of the blank sheet, the dark toffee and burnt amber scent as familiar as her own power. She had a bare moment to realise what the spell was, and not enough time to warn the watching warrior, before the Preceptor’s message had her, his voice sounding clear in her ears, sight overtaken by the spell work he had crafted.

  You have questions, young thing, but I have very little time and no good answers for you. You will have to find the answers yourself. There is something on the desk that may assist you. I am not the only one with secrets.

  Gritting her teeth Arrow waited for the wave of nausea to pass. For some reason the seeing and hearing spells that the Preceptor used, along with his translocation spells, always had this effect. Attention caught, she reached through the haze of spellwork in the second world and put her hand on the slim volume that was sitting so innocuously in the pile of papers.

  As soon as she touched the leather she knew she had made a mistake. The power contained in the book called to her senses, a vast well of knowledge at her fingertips. She could not check the movement before her fingers curled around the edge, partly lifting the book from its place, the cover opening a fraction as her grip slipped.

  A web of spell work more complex than anything the Preceptor had left sprang out of the barely-opened cover, snaking up her arm, across her shoulder and covering her entire person in a heartbeat.

  The knowledge of the book shoved into her mind, breezing past her wards and personal defences without a pause. Words in the most ancient form of Erith blazed across her second sight, invisible in the first world. New spells, a new way of seeing, and an explanation of how the rogue magician had so easily disappeared, danced across her second sight.

  The spin of words made her dizzy and she lost her grip on the first world, falling into the second world, blind to anything apart from the knowledge from the book, nausea rising as too much information forced itself into her mind.

  At length the procession stopped. Her stomach eased. The world settled, became still. The second world was dim by comparison to the text she had seen. Blinking she looked around, saw the bright amber flare of a warrior’s plain wards and the deeper, stronger amber of the Preceptor’s power coiling around the warrior, preparing to deliver a killing blow.

  “Stop!” She sent a thread of silver out to the Preceptor’s power, touching silver to the warrior’s shields,
and the lethal defence spells stilled, waiting.

  Blinking again she opened her first sight and found Kester vo Halsfeld backed into a corner of the Preceptor’s study, curving Erith steel held in front of him, breathing heavy, the translucent shape of an Erith attack hound hovering in the air before him, its lips back, baring long incisors in a silent snarl.

  “What is that thing?” the warrior asked, voice calm.

  “It is a construct, svegraen. Something the Preceptor uses rarely.”

  “I have seen constructs before. This is far less solid. Just magic, then?”

  “Quite deadly magic, I assure you.” Arrow found that she was on the ground, with no memory of how or why she was under the Preceptor’s desk, and scrambled to her feet, narrowly avoiding bumping her head against the desk. “If you can remain still for a few more minutes I believe I can send it back to a dormant state.”

  “It attacked when you fell over.” There was no condemnation in his voice, just an observation.

  “My apologies,” she felt her skin flush, “I was distracted.” And had withdrawn her slender thread of power from the warrior for a precious few moments. A few moments more and he would have been torn apart by the construct. Heart thumping, it took her a little longer than she would have liked to find the key to the construct’s spell and send it back into its dormant state. The beautifully rendered hound, poised mid-air, vanished from view. Kester sheathed his swords without comment.

  “What did you learn?”

  “Very little about where the Preceptor may have gone, or why. He left a … lesson for me.” She spied the slender book on the floor, open to reveal pages of densely written text. Whatever spell had overwhelmed her was dormant, so she bent and picked it up, along with a few other scattered pages.

  “That was a lesson? You looked like you were under attack,” he commented, coming out of the corner to look at the papers in her hands.

  “The Preceptor maintains that the best lessons are the hardest.”

  “You expected something like this?”

  “I did not expect that anything we found here would be easy.”

  She set the book down on the desk, fingers prickling with the residue of magic, and rifled through the papers she had collected from the floor. She held a jumbled collection of notes, from an innocuous healing potion to a variation on a concealment spell that snagged her attention. Frowning, she looked through the remaining papers in the pile Evellan had left, finding that the seemingly random collection of items continued. There was a class roster, for one of Gesser vo Regresan’s classes, a list of ingredients for something she could not place, several pages of what looked like a diary except there was nothing personal on the pages, just a list of events without clear dates or places.

  “Anything?” Kester’s voice broke her concentration. She jumped, finding him close by again, standing at parade rest. He did not look impatient, simply enquiring. “I only ask because I can see Kallish pacing up and down outside. She will wear a hole in the wards at this rate.”

  “Nothing that makes sense at the moment,” she answered, stuffing the papers and book into her bag, sealing it with a spark of power.

  “There is one thing,” Kester mentioned, drawing her full attention.

  “Yes, svegraen?”

  “There are three clocks in this room and they all tell a different time, and none of them is the right time.”

  Arrow blinked and looked around, seeing the imposing wooden clock, made in the manner of the Erith with magic powering its heart, and two smaller clocks on seemingly random shelves.

  “That is interesting.”

  “I recall that some concealment spells can be powered by mechanical devices,” he offered.

  “Yes.” She walked carefully across the room to the smaller of the three, calling a spark of light to better examine the device.

  “Why this one?”

  “The large one,” she nodded to the wooden clock, “is powered by magic already. It is precisely a half hour out of time, which is consistent with the clock in the Preceptor’s study at the Academy.”

  “Ah. He was using it as a reminder?”

  “I believe so. This, on the other hand, has no evident magic at all, but is managing to turn,” she did not touch the small, fragile object. It was made from glass, the delicate mechanics inside showing through the transparent case. It was a very feminine piece, and out of place in the strictly masculine study. It also seemed familiar.

  “You are frowning again,” Kester commented a while later.

  “I have seen this before, or something like it.” She took a step back and went to look at the final clock, dismissing it as being of little interest moments later. “That one is broken, and there is no active or passive magic on it.”

  “Broken, and yet the Preceptor kept it?”

  “There is an entire classroom at the Academy full of broken things,” Arrow said dryly. “Neither the Preceptor or Lady Seivella believed in wasting anything that could be used as a teaching aid.”

  “A broken clock?”

  “Can be made to work again with delicate, precise magic. An appropriate punishment for an undisciplined student.” She turned back to the glass-made clock.

  “Ingenious.” There was a smile in the warrior’s voice. Arrow nodded, not looking round. Something about this clock was deeply troubling.

  “It is exactly the same,” she said at length.

  “Arrow?”

  “The Lady Seivella had a clock exactly like this on her desk. Perhaps …” taking care that her personal shields were active, Arrow picked up the delicate object and turned it over, “… it is the same clock.”

  “A gift?”

  “Unlikely. Most likely a communication of some kind. There is no active magic. But there is a spell within the working.” Arrow opened her second sight again, dropping out of the first world, examining the tight knit cluster of spells that were concealed in the jammed mechanism. “Ah. A perpetual communication device.” The spell work required was not highly advanced, but it was delicately made, and a perpetual spell such as this required many, many hours of concentrated effort. The spell signature was unmistakably that of Lady Seivella. Arrow was frowning again when she relayed this to Kester. She could not imagine why the lady found it necessary to have a perpetual device.

  “Between the Preceptor and Lady Seivella?” Kester was fully alert, one hand on a weapon hilt.

  “Unlikely,” Arrow said again and nodded to the desk. “The carved horse there has the lady and lord’s signatures on it. I suspect it was a gift from the lady.”

  “A beautiful piece.”

  “Too beautiful to be discarded,” Arrow smiled, having a fair idea how the lady’s mind was cast.

  “The Preceptor does not like horses but would be forced to keep it.” Kester’s immediate understanding surprised her. He smiled in turn, “I have known the pair a long time.”

  “Of course, svegraen.”

  “This is something different. The lady’s own?”

  “It is possible. I would like to examine it further.” Arrow opened her bag, rummaging through its contents until she found a large, plain cloth. Wrapping the clock, she took a final look around the room. “We are not welcome to pry elsewhere. The items on the desk, and this clock, are for us.”

  “And he really left no explanation?”

  “Nothing helpful.” She heard the edge to her voice too late to temper it.

  “We should see what Kallish and Orlis have learned.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She nodded, and followed him out of the residence.

  The door snapped shut behind her, the building’s wards sparking to full effect, sending a charge across her skin, lifting her hair across her face. She shoved the curls back.

  “We are no longer welcome?” Kester guessed.

  “Something like that,” Arrow agreed, and was mortified a moment later as her stomach growled. Looking up at the sky she realised it was full dark.

  “I ha
ve always wanted to visit the Academy refectory. Is the food really as bad as the tales tell?”

  “It is basic.” Arrow bit down a smile at the idea of the Taellan eating in the Academy’s large refectory. The youngsters who were accustomed to the best that their Houses had to offer were frequently dismayed by the offerings from the Academy kitchens. However, the kitchens were always well stocked and there was never a shortage of food on offer. As good a place as any to discuss the odd behaviour of the Academy’s master.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They had almost reached the side entrance of the Academy, the nearest to the refectory, Orlis clearly full of news but quelled from speaking by a stern look from Kallish, when the light sound of a lady’s skirts cut through the quiet pacing of the White Guard. Turning, Arrow saw Vailla coming towards them, a determined look on the lady’s face.

  “Would you go ahead, please, svegraen, Master Orlis,” Arrow requested generally, before going to meet Vailla. It was unlikely that Vailla would speak as freely in front of an audience.

  “Where is he? What has happened?” Vailla was out of breath from her hasty strides, normally pale skin flushed.

  “I do not know, my lady,” Arrow answered, quickly drawing a rune for confusion in the air, to hide their conversation from the curious students passing by.

  “You must find him,” Vailla insisted, grasping Arrow’s arm with both hands, and shaking, hard. The lady had been doing more than embroidery in House Falsen, Arrow thought, keeping her balance with effort.

  “My lady,” Arrow began, only to be shaken again.

  “Pity’s sake, Arrow, call me Vailla and stop being so wooden. What have you learned?”

  “Very little.” Arrow disengaged Vailla’s grasping hands with gentle determination and took a small step back. “The Preceptor left of his own accord, for some purpose I have yet to learn.”

  “Did he leave no clue?”

  “A cryptic message.” Arrow saw by the look on Vailla’s face that she would not be satisfied with just that. There were no secrets so far, so she continued, “He bade me seek my own answers, and left me some random pieces of information which he seemed to think might help. I have not had a chance to look at them yet.”