“Very well.” Zachary glanced at the darkening sky. “We’ll set camp while you work.”
“Prime,” she acknowledged and fetched a groundsheet from her pack, laying it on the snow in the centre of the spells.
“How far away?” Zachary asked, picking up her pack to take with him.
“At least thirty paces,” she told him. They should be safe at that distance if anything went wrong.
~
Settling cross-legged, awkward in hiking boots, she slowed her breathing, closing her eyes and dropping into the calm state that was most efficient for spell working. The sounds of the first world, the ‘kin’s soft footfalls, rustle of canvas, soft murmur of conversation, breeze in the trees, crunch of snow, all fell away.
Opening her eyes to the second world she was met with a blinding knot of spells in a world flat and devoid of natural life. Here was only power, the lines of magic that a magic user had laid, the faint shades of shifkin natural magic just at the edge of her range.
The spellwork took some time to understand, a triple-layered concoction of different types of higher magic interlinked in a way that the Academy had declared to be impossible. The three circles of spellwork criss-crossed in a slowly turning perpetual spiral, dizzying to her eyes at first.
There was a dense pattern of crimson runes, thick strand of destruction, the colour of dried blood. Powered by forbidden blood magic. Somewhere nearby, under the snow, were the remains of whatever sacrifice had unwillingly surrendered its life to create this spell. Threaded into those runes were commands for wider dispersal. It was designed to destroy all trace of Marianne Stillwater, to prevent anyone from following her trail.
Twisted around the crimson runes were primitive black and white shapes, one of the earliest forms of Erith magic, still taught at the Academy. The apparently crude shapes protected the main spells held in the crimson runes.
And underneath all of that, sliding through the black, white and blood, was the sinuous shape of a destroyer worm. Creatures of spirit, they existed slightly out of phase with the first world, feeding on the power in the second world, normally harmless as they swam through the currents. They could be trapped, as this one had been, and bound closer to the first world, brought into phase with the second world which allowed them to feed directly from life in the first world. Their preferred meals were Erith. Even the weakest Erith had magic enough to satisfy a worm. This one was bound, starved of the magic that was its normal food source. Any magician attempting to use their power to unravel either of the other spells would quickly find themselves eaten by the worm.
Arrow shivered, memories surfacing. This giant worm, barely there even in her second sight, had smaller cousins, the flickers of their life barely the size of her palm, which were trapped inside suppressor collars that the Academy occasionally used for troublesome students. Arrow had worn one of those collars for much of her Academy career, once the Erith had decided she needed training, had lived with the twisting sensation about her neck and the whispers in the dark. Unable to use her magic while the collar was on, unable to block out the murmur.
More than one magician had died thinking that the little worms could be controlled, calling the things to them for experimentation, the worms latching on to power and draining them. And there were far greater threats, out of phase beyond the second world.
It was a deadly, masterful trap constructed with unparallelled skill. Not one of the Academy masters, even the Preceptor, would be able to build this trap.
Which raised the question as to who had made the trap. The Academy masters were amongst the finest magicians trained by the Erith, and where they did not have knowledge, they called in other magicians who did. None of them could have done this. Another Erith could have done. Or a human. A chill worked down her spine. Humans rarely managed such complex magic as this. On the rare occasions where they had, it had proved deadly to the Erith. There was a reason Arrow, and members of the White Guard, were sent to watch various humans. The Erith remembered.
With the blood sacrifice, the magician could be at any power level. The only thing that was certain was the consummate skill involved in creating this trap.
And she had to unpick it before they could move on and find out why Marianne Stillwater had been killed. And how a shifkin had come to the attention of such a skilled magician, when ‘kin and magicians generally had as little to do with each other as possible.
Ignoring the crude shapes and shifting runes, Arrow opened her senses further, focused on the worm. It had sensed the minimal power she was using to hold her second sight and thrashed in its bonds, wanting to be free, hungry enough to be reckless. Staying quiet and still for a while brought her its true name, the necessary key to sending it back to its own realm. Setting her will and a trickle of power behind her words, she forced her lips and vocal chords to shape the sounds of the thing’s name, ears assaulted by the psychic shriek as it was banished.
Dispatching the worm had woken the protections in the other spells, the crimson runes quivering in readiness, black and white shapes tightening in readiness.
Standing in the second world, kri-syang in one hand, silver blade solid and real as the lines of power, Arrow cautiously touched the lines of crimson. The black and white shapes folded on themselves, wrapping around her arms, pressure forcing her hand to open and let go of the rune. Reversing her grip on the kri-syang she sliced through one of the shapes, freeing her hand and arm only to have the shapes twist around her ankles, holding her in one place.
Satisfied that the shapes would not move, she went back to the crimson shapes. The spell was shifting, slowing down in its motion, preparing to trigger. She had to work quickly and delicately.
Slicing one strand at a time and replacing it with lines of her own she rewrote the spell’s code to focus all its destruction on the spot she was standing. The loose lines of the runes, freed without purpose, slid through the second world, and attached themselves to her body, acid of unclean magic burning against her skin, distracting her with pain, raising red welts.
The second world, she reminded herself when the pain made her hands shake. The second world, not the real, physical world.
The pain lessened a fraction and she continued, the world around her glowing with the silver of her own power, her body coated in crimson.
At last it was done. She was on her knees, encased in the shapes and the fragments of runes, vision blurring, kri-syang trembling as she put its tip to the last spell fragment.
The crimson died, purpose defeated, the black and white shapes falling with the runes, and she was left in a world nearly dark apart from a slender, clear line. Marianne Stillwater’s trail.
~
Coming back to the first world was a study in pain. Everything ached, skin under her clothes raw and burning from the runes, eyelids stupidly heavy, breathing a labour against the rocks on her chest. Fumbling, she managed to get the kri-syang back into its sheath then the world tilted, spun, and the side of her head hit something hard.
A moment later and a pair of boots that she did not recognise walked sideways into her line of sight followed by knees she did not know and a face she thought she should know.
“Arrow?”
“Mphmph.”
“Arrow.” There was an earthquake. Everything trembled. The voice which she thought she should know called some incomprehensible commands over her head and then the world was spinning again. No earthquake this time.
“Is she alright?” Another voice she should know.
“Frozen through,” the first voice, the one belonging to the boots and knees, answered.
“Kettle’s on,” the second voice said.
“Good. Get her boots. Check her feet.”
“Will do.”
Fires were started at her hands and feet and she moaned, twisting away from the pain, burning almost as bad as the oath spells in her blood.
“Arrow.” There was power behind that voice. Power and intent. She froze, blinked
. Dangerous. “Stay still. We need to warm you up.”
“N-n-not,” she started, then bit off her words in a hiss as the fires dimmed down, replaced with itching tingling that made her want to scratch and wriggle away again.
“Stay still.” There was more power in that voice. Predator. Danger. No, not danger. No threat. Surprise held her for a few moments. Long enough for the fires and tingling to die to something more bearable.
“Here.” Something was presented to her mouth and she took a careful sip, moaning again. Burning. All the way down. Too hot. “Again.” The second voice was not as strong as the first and she turned her head away. Tried to. Something held her, a hold she could not physically break. More burning liquid forced between her teeth. Swallowed, coughed, choked. Scalding salt fell down her face. More drink.
Eventually the burning faded. She had endured. Liquid was taken away and the hold relaxed. She sagged, boneless, against whatever was holding her up.
“You’ll do,” the first voice told her, with utmost confidence. She believed him. Zachary.
“More chocolate?” The second voice. Matthias. Chocolate? She loved chocolate. When had they given her chocolate?
“Not just now. Warmth and sleep, I think.” Zachary moved her somehow, lying her down, and pulling something light and oh so warm over her.
Her eyes were clearing a little and she could make out their faces, blurred, and the bright cascade of oranges beyond that must be a fire.
“F-found it,” she managed to say, sleep pulling her down.
“Marianne’s trail?” Zachary’s eyes glinted green in the gloom. The shadow at his shoulder that must be Matthias had stilled.
“Yes. Follow easily.”
“Very good.” The Prime’s praise, deeply satisfied, sent her to sleep.
CHAPTER 9
Arrow surfaced from sleep to suffocation, chest weighted. Worse, there was no ward about her. Not one scrap of magic. A wordless protest tore out as she tried to move, blinking rapidly, trying to see, reaching for power on instinct, needing defence. The barest trickle, the tiniest fizz in her veins. Useless. Not enough for even the simplest ward. Hollowed out in her centre, all her strength gone. She could not even feel the seals.
Wriggling, she tried to sit up. The weight on her moved. A soft rumbling sound that did not sound anything like a threat vibrated against her, something damp and rough scraping her cheek, bringing her fully awake. Eyes clearing, she found herself nose to nose with a ‘kin in animal form.
Tamara. Matthias’ mate. Deep, chestnut red in her animal form, a white stripe between her eyes and down her nose.
Even as Arrow’s heart rate slowed, Tamara made another soft noise, part protest part comfort, and nosed Arrow’s cheek, casual gesture leaving a cold, damp spot on her skin.
“Good day to you,” Arrow managed, voice rough. She was still unable to move, Tamara’s greater weight pinning down the covers. Beyond Tamara’s shoulder she saw another ‘kin in animal form. Matthias, of course. Smaller than his mate’s animal form, compact and powerful as he was in human form, he was charcoal grey, blending into the shadows.
Matthias’ eyes glinted, but he merely got to his feet, shook himself, nudged Tamara and left Arrow’s sleeping space, Tamara following with her ears and tail up.
She was in some kind of makeshift shelter, a canvas stretched overhead, groundsheet underneath, lying under layers of blankets that were covered with animal hair and the scent of ‘kin.
Whoever had put her to bed had left her in thermals from neck to toes, and someone, perhaps the same someone, had laid out outer clothes for her, now warm from the ‘kin and covered in hair. Underneath the thermals her skin still felt raw and she pushed up one sleeve finding traces of red across her skin from the spell trap. The Academy’s teaching to junior students was that nothing in the second world could do damage in the first, helping their students overcome their fear of the unknown. A lie. Magicians carried power in their veins, and power could most definitely damage. Making an assessment from head to toe she was satisfied she was functional. Nothing too badly damaged. Just sore.
Getting dressed took far longer than she had imagined possible, fingers clumsy and limbs uncoordinated. Lacing her boots took the sort of focus usually reserved for the most complex high magic, and then her arms would not fit in jacket sleeves on the first few attempts. Leaving the jacket open, breathing hard, and with a strong wish to climb back under the blankets, she ducked out of the small shelter into the bright bite of a winter day.
She found herself facing the Prime, putting items into his pack with brisk efficiency.
“Chocolate,” he said, rising to his feet with a fluid grace she envied.
“Good morning.” Her voice was higher than normal. He held out a thermos flask.
“Chocolate,” he said again. “Or coffee, if you’d rather?”
“Chocolate would be welcome. Thank you.” She accepted the flask. “Is there a cup?”
“Drink it all. Slowly.”
She measured the size and weight of the flask with secret delight. Chocolate was only found in faraway human lands, one of the many foodstuffs forbidden in the Taellaneth, and a rare treat. There had been mention of chocolate the night before, but she had not been able to taste anything. At her first sip she forgot where she was, forgot the Prime moving about the small camp, entire focus on the taste and texture.
When she had reached the end of the flask, far too quickly, she found that the small camp had been packed up. Only the Prime was visible, and he was binding her backpack to one of the others.
“It is late,” she realised, dismayed. Close to noon, judging by the angle of the sun through the surrounding trees.
“You needed sleep.” He fastened the last straps.
“I should carry my own.” There was no conviction in her words, torn between relief and embarrassment at her obvious weakness. The Prime simply lifted an eyebrow and held a hand out. She offered him the empty flask.
~
Moving too quickly for her to guess his intent, he grasped her wrist instead, turning the inner side up, pushing her sleeve back to expose her skin to light. The flask fell to the ground. The dark markings buried inside her wrist, sharp contrast to pale skin, were vivid in the daylight.
“And the other?” His voice gave nothing away, at odds with his too-still body.
Skin prickling as the runes woke up, Arrow tugged her other sleeve back with her teeth and showed him the inner side of her other wrist with its different set of markings below the sheath for her kri-syang. The marks were still and stark to outside view. Inside, the tendrils of the spells they held, woven deep into Arrow’s body, flexed, coiling in readiness.
“Erith slave markings.” He was no longer calm, thrum of anger making her shiver, a reaction he measured with hard eyes.
It had not been a question, so she said nothing, markings becoming darker and sharper as the spells remained active.
“What do they signify?”
“Service,” she raised her right wrist a fraction, “and obedience,” the left.
“And how did you come by these markings?” He had both her wrists now, grip firm not cruel. There would be no outward bruises.
Her mouth opened, sound cut off, spells coursing to life, unseen lines of pain crawling up her arms, fingers clenching in response. Biting her lip held in a gasp.
Zachary watched with a cool stare. “Oath markings,” he guessed, and she nodded, “which you are not permitted to discuss.”
“Yes.” Bare sound. If she had been stronger, if she had a fraction of her magic, she could have given him more. As it was she had to lock her knees to remain upright.
“To the Taellan?”
“Yes.” Not just the Taellan, but it was the easiest explanation. Originally the spells had bound her to service of the Taellan and Preceptor, but the Taellan had also commanded her to obey Eshan as if he were one of them. She supposed she should be grateful that they had not thought to repeat that co
mmand with others. With the spells live in her blood gratitude was taken over by more familiar fury.
“For your lifetime?”
“No.”
“A set period, then.” He lifted one wrist then the other to inspect the markings more closely. Assessing, missing nothing. “I didn’t think the Erith still used such things.”
“Made an exception.” She forced the words out, anger giving her a moment’s strength, jaw clenching. While the pain had faded, the crawling sensation of foreign, live, spellwork in her body was growing.
“You have to follow the Taellan’s commands?”
“Yes.” She wondered how Zachary had learned so much about Erith oath-markings. His questions were careful. Although he was demanding answers, she thought he had already known everything she had told him.
“And what do the Taellan require of you here?”
“To find the truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death.” The pain faded.
“What else?”
“I do not understand.”
“No other mission? The Erith haven’t sent you with other orders, too?”
“No. I may be required to report …” The pain flared again, spells reacting to possible disobedience. She had been commanded, many years before, to never discuss the Taellan’s business. Her knees gave out and she fell into the snow, wrists still held by Zachary, who followed her movement with ease, crouching before her, observing.
She hated the oath-magic. Had tried to carve it out of her flesh before now, the pain of the blade nothing compared to the pain of the magic. She had hated it before she had fully understood what it was, when the crawling sensation of the marks first bit into her skin, the Preceptor implacable as he spoke the spells, a few of the Taellan as stern-faced witnesses, expressions not changing no matter how much she screamed. They had offered her a choice that was no choice at all. Accept the possibility of life or be killed then and there. And she had wanted to live. Still did.
Wanting to live, she had learned outward compliance, and how to discipline her mind most of the time so that now the oath spells rarely woke, the first coiling of the spells in her body usually enough to ensure obedience. The Erith were confident in their hold on her.
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