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 well 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.
And the seals were gone. A memory. She could not put them back, even if she wanted to.
The silver heart of her power beat, silent and strong. She was exhausted but not drained. Still had enough power to defeat the Preceptor himself. If she could only bring her stupid body to move.
A tiny smile tugged her mouth. Her body would recover. A magician only needed her voice to work. The Erith might want her dead, but they would find that very difficult indeed.
CHAPTER 17
“Arrow?”
The voice was muffled, hard to hear. Demanding attention. A shadow moved in front of the sun and she squinted up trying to make sense of the shape. Zachary Farraway.
“Prime,” she said. Or thought she did. Her ears were not working properly. And her eyes ached. She sat up slowly, wincing at the effort. Ribs ached, too. Glancing down she saw her clothing was ripped, stuffing of her jacket puffing out in white clouds, tears along her legs revealing brilliant silver stripes as her power worked to heal her. Another set of clothing that might not be rescued. Proof, if she had needed it, of how dangerous the surjusi was, that something of spirit could create physical damage.
“You’re not injured.”
Her ears were still full, yet she easily heard the disbelief in his voice.
“Healing,” she told him. That was twice he had seen her heal by herself. An ability denied the Erith. He must know that, yet he just lifted a brow.
She saw the hilt of her sword not far from her foot. She leant forward and picked it up, the movement waking up the various wounds across her body, and sheathed the sword. The strap of her messenger bag was still across her body, frayed in places, weight of the bag on the ground next to her.
Breathing carefully, she found the air dry, full of ash, fine flecks of deep charcoal coating everything she could see, remnants of the surjusi’s passing. And through the ash a sweet scent she remembered well, and which made a heavy lump of her heart.
“There was a demon here.” Zachary was pale, tight lines bracketing his mouth, crouching nearby so he could stare straight into her eyes. “And your eyes are completely silver. What in hell?”
“Surjusi.”
“What?”
“Surjusi. Erith word.” Her ears popped, a stab through her skull making her wince and reach up instinctively. Her hands came away bloody. She hunted through her bag for a clean cloth and wiped the worst of the blood away, hot itching inside telling her that her body was working to heal itself, make her functional and ready for the next threat. Sounds rushed in, too sharp and clear, skull ringing with a deep tone.
“Demon,” he insisted.
“Human term. Limited. Surjusi.” She drew up her knees, resting her arms on them, chin on her arms, not wanting to move, not sure she could. “Normally out of phase. Brought through.”
“Deliberately brought here?”
“Yes. Not accident.”
“What did that have to do with Marianne?”
“Do not know. Marianne here after surjusi contained,” she told him, ringing in her head slowly dying.
“Marianne touched that creature? How did she survive?”
Arrow guessed that the surjusi had been contained, trapped behind the runes, when Marianne had been at the house. Surjusi were anathema to Erith, high magic the demon’s preferred source of food in this realm. An Erith touched by surjusi could be drained of life, soul shredded, in moments. Something about shifkin’s natural magic gave them strong defence against surjusi, making them unattractive, although they might be influenced by the surjusi’s taint and could be killed by a magician wielding surjusi-tainted power. It was likely that the thing had not bothered to attack Marianne, although she would have been aware of it.
She told the Prime that. Or tried to. The ringing might have faded but her mind was still swimming, absorbing the separated parts of her back into one being. Setting the seals in place had been the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. If it had not been so necessary, the Erith almost comically terrified of a half-breed who had manifested silver power, she would have given up several times. Only the stubborn will to live had kept her going. She had left herself enough power to work magic, but not much more than that, crippling herself even before they had put the collar on her.
“And the silver?”
<
br /> Arrow’s face lightened into a smile, bitter edged.
“I had to open myself to defeat that thing. Break the seals.”
The Prime rocked back on his heels a moment, absorbing that information. He was wary. As he should be. Not concerned, though. And he should be, she thought darkly. Physically battered she nonetheless had as much power now as she ever had tapping into the mountain.
“You hid from the Erith all these years. And your ability to heal yourself.” He had noticed, of course. He knew the Erith far too well. “Nice trick.” His answering smile was dark-edged. “You’ll need to do something about your eyes, though. They’re glowing silver,” he told her, seeing her confusion. “Here.” He drew a thick bladed knife from a thigh sheath and turned it, using it as a mirror.
She blinked, startled. Her eyes were indeed pure silver, the contrast more startling because ash and blood coated her skin. Above that her hair, unruly at the best of times, was in thick snarls, coated with ash.
A moment’s focus and the glow died, returning slowly to the familiar silver sparks, a little brighter than before. It was unlikely that the Erith would notice. She concentrated a few more moments, mapping the sensations through her body, how it felt to have her whole power back and dampened down.
“Better.” Zachary stowed his knife and rose to his feet. The silver coiled, wary. Secrets shared were dangerous. And yet Arrow thought he would keep hers. Why, she was not sure. Perhaps simply because he did not owe truth to the Erith. “The Erith are gone.”
“Not all of them.” She could not stay here forever. She managed to stand, turning to face the source of that sweet scent, fresh pain rising.
On the uneven road surface, dusted with the sooty remnants of the surjusi, an Erith warrior lay partly on his back, legs tangled from running, one arm flung out, sword still in his grasp, unseeing eyes wide open to the sky, mouth open in a shout that had long since gone.
“You knew.”
“There is a scent. You do not forget.” Her voice choked. Moving carefully, she went over to the warrior. Etan nuin Sovernis. One of the youngest White Guard in service. A troublesome cadet, as far as she had been concerned. He had taken delight, along with several of her classmates, in teasing her when she had been collared. Still. His past petty cruelty was no answer to the hurt in her chest. No one deserved this fate.
Gently turning him, she laid him out for rest, folding his arms over his chest, putting his sword under his fingers, careful not to touch his skin.
“How did he die?” Zachary asked. There was not a mark on the warrior’s body in the first world. In the second world he was torn into tiny shreds, the echo of his scream drawing tears to her eyes.
“Tainted and drained. The wounds are of the spirit.” Taking another clean cloth from her bag she carefully closed the warrior’s eyes, closed his mouth, smoothed a stray strand of hair back from his forehead so that he looked more at rest, as though he might have been sleeping. Closing shaking fingers into a fist she pressed it against her mouth, ache in her chest threatening to choke her.
“Was he a friend?” the Prime asked gently, experienced in loss.
“No.” The ghost of what might have been a laugh rode her words, a few hot tears escaping to run down her face and trail through the ash. She glanced up at the Prime, seeing Matthias and Tamara a short distance away, faces sombre. “There are too few Erith that we should not mourn.” She was too worn to be anything but honest. She swallowed, taking in his resting pose, the sleeves nearly bare of braids. “He was young. One of the youngest White Guard.”
The ‘kin waited in silence while she checked the warrior’s pose and decided there was nothing more that could be done.
“If you would, stand back a little, please.”
Zachary went to stand with his son and Tamara without complaint.
The silver power came to her call, warm and familiar, and she placed her hand over the warrior’s heart. She did not speak the ritual words, even in her mind, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood to hold the words in. The warrior’s family would carry out the rites, and they would not want his rituals tainted by her efforts. For now, all she could do was prepare his remains for the journey.
The spell for a soul stone was simple and tore a little piece of her with it. The silver glow spread across the warrior’s chest and flared, covering his entire body in a momentary blaze before fading slowly. When the light was gone there was no body on the ground just a dark, brilliant glimmer, and the first green shoots of vicandula forcing themselves up between the cracks in the road. The vicandula, a plant born of Erith magic, would remain as a permanent reminder of the warrior’s passing, no matter what the humans might try.
Arrow gathered the glimmer in the plain cloth she had used to smooth the warrior’s face, folding it with exquisite care before rising.
“What is that?” Tamara asked, unashamed in her curiosity.
“An Erith soul stone,” Zachary answered, something in his voice making Tamara duck her head and step back, half-hiding behind her mate. “It would be the honour of the shifkin nation to keep the vigil and provide transport and escort back to the Taellaneth,” he offered, with the tiniest of bows, in the Erith manner. Arrow gave him a small bow in return, cradling the cloth in both hands.
“That would be most welcome, Prime.” He was as well versed in Erith death rituals as other Erith customs, and she could not help wondering, again, where he had come by such rare knowledge. “Do you have a container that I may use?”
“Of course.” Zachary relayed instructions to Tamara which had her walking briskly to the end of the street where the muster vehicles waited along with the other ‘kin, armed and wary, waited. Arrow was impressed at the discipline as they held rank.
~
“You knew that thing was here,” Zachary growled when Tamara was out of earshot, even for a ‘kin.
“Not knew. Suspected. Hoped it was not true.” The soul stone was a lead weight, a reminder of failure.
“A little warning would have been nice,” Matthias snarled.
A few short hours before the combined wrath of two powerful ‘kin would have made her tremble. Now she held the Prime’s gaze, refusing to back down.
“There was nothing you could have done. Surjusi are matters of magic. They cannot be defeated with your weapons. And to mention such a thing would spark panic. With no proof … Well, the city has suffered enough.”
“There’s proof now.” Matthias was still angry. The Prime, holding Arrow’s eyes, was calmer, thinking.
“Any more?” he asked.
“I cannot sense anything else but need to see inside the residence to be certain.” Her eyes fell, imperfectly hiding the tremor that ran through her at the thought of facing another one of those creatures alone. The building seemed empty to her senses. She hoped that was true.
Tamara’s return broke the uncomfortable silence. She was carrying a small wooden box, made in ‘kin style, apparently plain yet beautifully finished.
“This was a gift from the Hallveran muster,” Zachary told Arrow. “Will this do?”
“It is beautiful. Shifkin craftsmanship is admired among the Erith. Thank you.”
The plain cloth bundle fitted neatly into the box and Arrow was left holding the box with both hands.
“Come, let’s set the guard before we go into the house.”
Zachary chose four older ‘kin as the honour guard for the warrior’s soul stone, their age betrayed only by the knowledge in their eyes and the weight of their presence in the second world. They bowed as one and accepted the charge with dignity, taking the box with another bow in the Erith style. It was not just the Prime who was familiar with Erith death rituals.
Another pair of ‘kin produced flasks of coffee and, to Arrow’s surprise, towels to wipe off the worst of the ash.
Stepping apart from the group, out of sight for a moment, she buried her face into the towel, inhaling the scent of ‘kin. Pine forest and the tang of wild that re
minded her of Farraway Mountain. It did not cancel out the sweet scent of Erith death, which would be tied to this place forever thanks to the vicandula. She allowed herself one, muffled, sob.
Lifting her head, face cleaner, she found Zachary nearby holding out a metal mug of coffee.
“Warriors know the dangers.”
She nodded agreement, sipping coffee, throat burning.
“But?” he prompted.
“War mages are responsible for keeping the population safe from incursion and other magical attacks. I failed.” The last words were forced out through stiff lips.
“So what? Give up? Crawl away and hide?”
“No!”
“Good,” he said, satisfied, “you’re no good to anyone wallowing.”
He wandered away and she bit her lip, sorrow lifted by a clean wash of anger. He had provoked her, found a weak spot, and exploited it. There was no softness in him, rather a deep understanding of the way people worked. She wondered if that was what the Erith Queen had seen in the Prime that had led her to pursue peace, against all odds and the loud protests of her closest advisors. Peace which had been secured. There were Erith and shifkin growing up with no direct knowledge or experience of war. The first generation to do so.
“Ready?” Matthias asked.
“Ready,” she confirmed, handing the empty mug and soiled cloth to one of the ‘kin with thanks.
The Prime led the way back along the street, pausing a moment at the vicandula which had already reached knee height.
“I haven’t seen one of these before.”
“Vicandula. An Erith gravestone,” she told him. The first one that she was aware of outside Erith borders. She suspected that the Erith might establish a presence in Hallveran simply to tend this plant. A fallen warrior’s grave was a precious matter to the Erith.
The Prime nodded, filing that information away, and moved on, Matthias and Tamara trailing after Arrow.
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