Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  “What’s going on, Arrow?” the Prime asked, grim.

  “Nothing good,” she answered, choosing to misunderstand his question. His face tightened, inherent power gathering in his eyes.

  “Why are the Erith so worried about you?” he asked bluntly.

  “Because of this.” A long breath out, shoulders bowing under the invisible weight again before she put her hand up to the empty space over her shoulder, closing her hand into a fist. Under her skin a stream of silver light bloomed, resolving into the long hilt of a sword in her hand.

  “A sword? You’ve had a sword this whole time?” Matthias growled, angry.

  “Just this morning,” she told him, sword pressing on her, an enormous burden for something that had no physical weight, exhaustion of the spell crafting and the purpose of the sword adding to the strain.

  “Is that necessary?” Kallish was asking, urgent tone catching the ‘kin’s attention.

  “I fear so, svegraen. I hope that it will not be necessary.”

  “Where did you get a war mage’s spirit sword?” Juinis snapped the demand.

  “I made it, my lord,” she told him, watching the disbelief and denial cross his face. The Taellan knew that she had graduated. Many of them had been at her Trials. Yet they never seemed to consider what that meant. Trials were held only for White Guard and war mages. And she was no warrior.

  She could hardly blame them their disbelief. War mages were rare. Trained in lethal magic, they were generally accorded utmost respect, even by the Queen, and granted a great deal of freedom. Not one had ever been shackled as she was. Every other war mage had their cloak. And the honour of their House.

  She had no cloak, and no House to grant her honour. Her graduation had sent ripples of unease around the Erith, not celebration. The only recognition of her graduation was a rare gift; an old, worn, harness, leather sewn with beautifully crafted spells to hold a war mage’s sword. A treasured possession, the only outward sign of her graduation, it had been unexpectedly provided by one of the Teaching Masters, a former training aid uncovered at the back of one of the Academy’s storage cupboards. Without that she would have been carrying a war mage’s sword wrapped in a scarf or haphazardly tucked into her bag.

  “Arrow, explain,” the Prime requested.

  “This is a spirit sword, not something designed to cut flesh and bone.”

  “Explain,” he snapped.

  “I do not have the proper words,” she told him honestly, trying to think of a better explanation that would translate. War mage’s swords were not something the Erith talked about. And there had been no time to get used to the enormous presence of spellwork at her back, the thing alert in a similar way to her wards, only far more complex.

  “There has not been an incursion in over a hundred years,” Kallish interrupted, tense. Arrow remembered the sculpture outside the Taellaneth main building. The six who had sealed the last breach at the cost of their lives. Fallen not Forgotten. A chill ran through her.

  “I know,” Arrow answered in Erith, “but there is something here. I judge the danger to be critical.” Something less than an incursion. Some fool playing with power in the second world. She hoped.

  “We should remove the lord,” Kallish said, unguarded for a moment.

  “Remove me?” Juinis stepped forward, colour rising in his cheeks. “I am come to discover more of the truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death. It would be a grievous insult to the Prime were I to simply leave.”

  “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 qui
ck 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 16

  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, hissing 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 momen
t 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.