She was frozen through, teeth chattering, by the time they reached the Halsfeld manor, forced to leave her bag and boots outside and follow Eshan into the manor at a brisk pace, no time or inclination to admire a residence she had not been in before, gathering confusing impressions of a richly furnished residence full of laughter and tension, ending up in a room with a burning fire, the Halsfeld healer in attendance, and Lord Juinis wrapped in a magnificent velvet dressing robe settled before the fire, sipping Erith tea.
“Heal him,” Eshan barked at her, made a bow to the Taellan, and left the manor.
Arrow drew a breath, toes thawing out in the plush rug underfoot, and assessed the Taellan. He was pale, cheeks hollow, expression more fixed than normal. She judged that he had had a fright and would likely be the better for it. He had also been cleansed already; there was no residual trace of taint that she could see in second sight.
“Well, get on with it,” the Halsfeld healer snapped. His personal wards were flaring, nervousness clear. He was worried about being tainted himself.
“My lord.” Arrow ignored the healer, made a shallow bow to the lord that would have earned her an instant reprimand from most of the Taellan.
The cleansing spell was unnecessary. Even the healer, with his weak magic, would have been able to tell. And there was an Academy not that far from here full of skilled magicians, most of whom knew far more healing spells than she did. All of that stayed behind her teeth and she spoke the quickest, simplest healing spell, careful to allow only a trickle of power to fuel it, setting the magic over Juinis as a silver net.
Once it had absorbed into the lord he moved restlessly, more life returning to his eyes.
“It is done, my lord.”
“Then why do I still feel so weak?” he asked peevishly.
“Your personal reserves would have been fighting the taint, my lord. A meal and some rest and you will be returned to yourself.” Arrow bowed slightly. The healer could have told his master, remaining silent instead, twitching, fingers playing with the strap of the bag that lay across his body. More concerned about his own health, she judged, and wondered how he had survived so long in a Taellan’s household.
“Go,” the healer ordered her. “I will see to the lord.”
Arrow bowed again to the Taellan, ignored the healer, and walked out of the residence before she was tempted to say something imprudent. Shoving her feet into her human-made boots, she shrugged on her ruined coat, slid the messenger bag across her body and began the long trek back across the Taellaneth grounds to her own residence, hoping she did not encounter any Taellan, White Guard, the Chief Scribe, or the Steward, who would all reprimand her for her attire. She was tired and anticipated a long day tomorrow with the Preceptor.
As she walked she remembered that she had left her pack in Hallveran, and the only Erith clothing she had in the Taellaneth was the outfit with the coat that had been ruined by snake venom, presently crumpled along with her other laundry waiting for her to have the time and courage to face the laundry mistress to request cleaning and mending. It was possible that the laundry mistress would have some other cast-offs that she could have. The last time Arrow had been forced to ask the laundry mistress for fresh clothing she had spent so long listening to the woman shriek that her ears had rung for the rest of the day.
Dragging herself across the Taellaneth she realised she faced either the probable wrath of the Taellan and disappointment of the Taellaneth Steward at her damaged clothing or dealing with the laundry mistress. This late in the day she took the coward’s option of returning to her residence to think on it a bit more. To her surprise she found not only her pack leaning against the wall outside her residence, but also a small hemp sack next to it which contained a waterskin and more food than she usually saw in several days. There was nothing to identify where the unexpected gifts had come from. She murmured a thanks to the uncaring air and took her hoard inside, steps lighter.
CHAPTER 19
Insistent hammering at her warped and ill-formed door woke her far too soon. Opening it, wrapped in an old blanket, she found it was barely daylight and there was not one but two Taellaneth messengers outside, although it was hard to say which was most displeased by her appearance.
“Good morning.” She managed a polite tone.
“Preceptor Evellan requires your attendance,” one said.
“The Taellan require your immediate attendance,” the other countered, glaring at the first messenger.
“Very well. Please convey to the Preceptor that I will join him after I have attended the Taellan. And please convey to the Taellan, or the Chief Scribe, that I will be there as soon as I can.” She stepped back, intending to close the door, blocked by the second messenger’s foot.
“Immediately.”
“I cannot present myself to the Taellan dressed in a blanket,” she told him, exasperated.
The messenger looked as though he would dispute that then cast another glance up and down her person.
“An eighth candle.”
A bare ten minutes in the human world. A ridiculously short period of time for her to get into her Erith clothing, with its numerous buttons. Arrow set her jaw.
“I will be dressed as soon as I can.”
“An eighth candle,” he insisted as she shut the door in his face.
Precisely an eighth candle later he began hammering on the door again, so powerfully that the wood, already weak, cracked, a hairline fissure running up the centre of it.
Mostly dressed, just her coat to fasten, Arrow opened the door with a hiss, narrowly missing being hit in the face by the messenger’s raised fist.
“Now,” he told her. The other messenger had gone.
“Fine,” she snapped, the bottomless pool of silver warming inside her.
She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her, noting the fist-sized dent as well as the crack. The door had fitted badly before, and now most definitely needed repair. Which she would have to negotiate for with the Steward. Far easier than dealing with the laundry mistress, but yet another unpleasant conversation ahead.
“You cannot be outside like that,” he said, horrified. Her coat was open, her hair unpinned, a handful of pins shoved into one pocket.
“Then, please, go and report my inadequacies to the Steward and make sure you tell him I was permitted only an eighth candle to dress for the Taellan.” There was an edge to her voice that she had not heard before, temper that had been dormant for years stirring at the petty bullying, no longer afraid of what they might do. The messenger paled, swallowed, and ran off.
Arrow bit back curses. She needed to compose herself if she was to survive the Taellan and Preceptor. Walking at a brisk pace, she made her way to the main building, fastening her coat properly and haphazardly pinning her hair as she went. The coat was horribly creased, still, every wrinkle highlighted in the bright morning light. Perhaps she should have braved the laundry mistress after all.
Arriving at the room which the Taellan generally used for their business, the Taellan were nowhere to be seen. There was an open door further along the corridor with the scent of Erith tea and hum of conversation creeping from the doorway.
Prepared for a long wait, Arrow went into the meeting room, startled for a moment to see it was not entirely empty. Kallish nuin Falsen, dressed in her day uniform, hair sleek down her back, not a single crease visible, waited by one of the high windows. Arrow made a half-bow in the warrior’s direction and received a nod in return, further surprising her, before she took her own place, standing in one of the shadowed alcoves where servants waited.
She used the time to review the events of the past days, considering what the Taellan needed to know, and whether the Preceptor would see through the paper-thin shielding she had hastily constructed where her seals had been. They were not pleasant thoughts.
More than a half candle later and the Taellan entered, all ten of them, talking among themselves and taking their places around the ta
ble with no sense of urgency, one of Eshan’s scribes following them in and settling himself into an alcove in a similar pose to Arrow. Lord Juinis, restored to full health, was accompanied by Gret vo Regresan and Eimille vel Falsen, both the older Taellan’s personal wards shimmering at the edge of Arrow’s sight, protecting themselves against any possible residue the lord was carrying. It was a calculated show of support by the two older Taellan. Many of the others were keeping a prudent distance from the Halsfeld lord.
Once the lords and ladies had settled in a rustle of fine fabric, the elder called the meeting to order with a wave of his hand, beckoning the scribe forward first. The scribe updated the Taellan on what should have been a minor dispute between landholders in the Erith heartland. It did not sound urgent to Arrow’s ears, not even considering that the lands bordered one of the Consort’s personal properties, and yet the Taellan treated the matter with solemn attention, asking a series of questions that never seemed to end.
By the time the scribe was finished, Arrow was calm and resolved in what she would and would not disclose. The Taellan ignored the Erith warrior and Arrow was summoned forward at Seggerat’s gesture. As soon as she stepped forward a barrage of questions rose, voices running over each other. The melody of the Erith language and voices did nothing to hide the demand. The Taellan wanted to know everything about the malevolent spirit. Where had it come from? What was its purpose? Had she truly banished it? Would it return?
“My ladies and lords,” Arrow bowed, “I have not yet had time to consult with the Preceptor and the Archives in this matter.” Even as she spoke there was a dull thud at the door, the familiar sound of a knock muffled by the room’s wards. Without waiting for a reply, the doors opened, wards crackling and hissing at the breach.
Evellan came into the room, robes brushing off the ward static as he walked. The doors closed behind him at the flick of his wrist and spoken command, the room’s wards settling at a further command, an open display of power that he rarely indulged in. Quietly amused by the open shock on some of the Taellan’s faces at the abrupt entrance, Arrow made her bow and stepped back at his approach to let him speak.
“Preceptor Evellan,” Seggerat rose to his feet, voice cool, “is there something amiss?”
“Something amiss?” the Preceptor’s voice was silky quiet in the room, tone one that his students would know and dread. Arrow wished she could take a few more steps back.
“Yes, my lord,” Seggerat managed to convey his irritation without raising his voice or changing his apparently polite tone.
“There has been an incursion. A surjusi althem in this realm for the first time in over a hundred years. And you,” the word dripped scorn, encompassing the entire table, “think to deal with this without informing the Academy?”
“Ah. I fear there has been a misunderstanding,” the elder said smoothly and Arrow’s apprehension transferred to him. When he was smooth he was dangerous.
“A misunderstanding? Was there not an incursion? Are you not here this morning to discuss the incursion? No misunderstanding so far.” The Preceptor had banked his anger, yet it still burned enough to draw displeased frowns from many of the Taellan.
“We do not think to deal with this without informing the Academy. That would be foolish. Rather, we are to hear our agent’s report and determine a response.”
“Your agent in non-magical matters only, my lord,” Evellan could be smooth, too, “and by the mere fact she now wears a spirit sword, I can assure you that magical matters are involved.”
“A sword?” The elder lost some of his composure, annoyance flushing his cheeks as he turned to glare at Arrow. “A sword in this chamber?” More than one of the Taellan glanced at her shoulder. Few of them were powerful enough in magic to fully see the sword, just aware that there was something there.
“A spirit sword, my lord, which I am permitted to carry,” Arrow reminded him.
“No weapons in the meeting chamber!” Gret surged to his feet, outrage surpassing Seggerat’s. Arrow required a great deal of self-control to keep from glancing across at the living weapon that was Kallish nuin Falsen.
“Weapons are permitted when carried by the White Guard and war mages, my lord.” Arrow kept her voice as neutral as possible, torn between amusement at their discomfort and irritation, her temper still prickling, that they had, yet again, so clearly and completely forgotten her training.
“Magical matters,” the Preceptor reminded the room. After a long, tense moment, Gret settled and Seggerat twitched his formal robe into place and took his seat once more.
“Magical matters,” he acknowledged.
“Arrow, where have you reached in your report?” the Preceptor asked, glancing around for somewhere to sit. There were no other chairs in the room, so he simply stayed where he was, with a good view of the room.
“I had not begun, my lord, other than to inform the Taellan that I had not had an opportunity to consult with you or the Archives.”
“You are quite certain that you encountered a surjusi althem?” Eimille vel Falsen asked, clinging to a last glimmer of hope.
“As certain as I can be, my lady,” Arrow drew a breath, saw the Preceptor’s raised brow, and went on, “and I should also report at once that there were two surjusi summoned.”
The room erupted in a rapid-fire round of questions, exclamations, and alarm, the Taellan talking over each other across the table, pelting questions at Arrow too fast for her to follow. For the first time that she could remember, Seggerat failed to restore order with a glance and resorted to rising to his feet again, palms raised. Even that failed to bring quiet.
Unable to act, Arrow watched with close attention and interest. Since she had last observed the Taellan, Juinis had been tainted, there had been an attack on the House Falsen and the House Sovernis had lost one of its youngest. She had now brought confirmation that there was an incursion. It was more danger than the Taellan had faced in her memory, and long-dormant tensions between some of the most influential Erith alive were coming to the surface, showing just how fragile their cooperation was. As she watched, the Lady Sovernis reminded Gret vo Regresan of an old obligation due to her House. From the colour of Gret’s face the reminder had not been appreciated.
“Stop!” The Preceptor’s voice cut through the babble, laced with a touch of power. The Taellan turned their collective attention on the Preceptor, varying degrees of shock and disbelief across their faces. Evellan’s robes flared around him, the ever-present shadows swirling in restless curls.
“There is no point in being truly upset until we know what we are dealing with,” the highest authority in Erith magic stated, with admirable patience.
“Lord Evellan,” the elder inclined his head in a rare show of respect. “Continue,” he told Arrow, in a completely different voice, and seated himself with a rustle of fine cloth.
“Elder. Lords and ladies,” Arrow stepped forward again, “it would perhaps be easier if I told you what I have learned, rather than describe events.” She did not wait for permission, foreseeing a debate that could last an age.
Instead she catalogued, in as even a voice as possible, the triple-layered trap of spells left on Farraway Mountain, the attack by baelthras, the attack by the magician with his invisible weapon, and the discovery of the ruin in Hallveran with summoning spells for not one but two surjusi. She said nothing about Juinis’ taint, or being pulled into the crossbow’s world, or the breaking of the seals she had kept hidden from the Erith more than half her life.
The telling took a while, but under the weight of both the Preceptor and elder’s stares, the Taellan remained silent, attention fixed on her.
There was a short pause when she reached the end then the Preceptor stirred.
“The same spell worker throughout?”
“The trap on the mountain and the summoning at Hallveran, yes, my lord. I do not know about the attacker on the mountain as there was no clear trace.”
“Erith?” Seggerat want
ed to know.
“I cannot be certain. The summoning spell was Erith, and the runes used on the mountain were Erith.”
“There had to be some involvement of Erith, then,” Kester vo Halsfeld spoke up, apparently quite calm.
“I believe so, yes, my lord.”
“Where are the surjusi now?” the Preceptor cut back in.
“The one left at the house is gone. The other, I do not know. I speculate that it accompanies its summoner.” That the surjusi was still tied to its summoner was the only explanation she could think of that made sense for why there was no widespread panic or taint. The surjusi would follow its temporary master for so long as the magician kept the spells refreshed, waiting until the magician made a mistake before slipping its bonds and escaping. An untied surjusi would cut a direct line through the second world for the Erith borders, drawn by the promise of a feast of high magic.
“Who we cannot identify,” the elder had a pinched expression, not hiding his dissatisfaction.
“That is so,” Arrow agreed. There was a restless movement around the table, the full impact of her report beginning to sink in. Arrow did not blame them for their pale faces and trembling. At least one highly skilled magic user, with an invisible weapon, the ability to translocate and the aid of a surjusi. She would quite like to hide but suspected she would receive different orders. And the White Guard would be doubling their patrols as soon as the elder had the opportunity to speak with Lord Whintnath.
“You discovered the surjusi in Hallveran by following Marianne Stillwater’s trail?” Kester again, seeking clarification.
“Yes.”
“Do we know why the lady was there?” The elder picked up on Kester’s line of thought.
“No. I do not think she was looking for surjusi. She was on some other quest.”
“Who cares what she was there for,” Gret burst in, dismissive. “She had no ability to summon the thing or control it.”
That gave rise to another round of questions from the Taellan, discussing the matter amongst themselves across the table, Arrow and the Preceptor forgotten. The Preceptor was following the conversation but, from his abstracted expression, his mind was clearly on other matters. Arrow gave up trying to follow the twisted paths of logic that Taellan were following. They were worried, and not thinking clearly.
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