Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  It was only when the vehicle was back on the narrow road that Arrow saw that there were three other vehicles a little further down the hill, doubtless the ones used by the shifkin. The tangled remnants of the gang’s vehicles had been tossed to either side of the road, and here and there a blanket covered what Arrow assumed were human remains. Doubtless Zachary would want a more thorough examination of the bodies to make sure there was nothing more to learn.

  “Keys?” Zachary asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Still in the ignition,” she answered, teeth chattering together.

  “Are there blankets in the vehicle?” he asked, frowning, “you are turning blue.”

  “I will look,” Kallish said, moving past them with fluid grace.

  “There are a lot of weapons,” Arrow said.

  “So we saw,” he said, humour appearing again, “enough for a small war, it seems.”

  “The White Guard like to be prepared.” She managed a weak smile as Kallish came back with a large, heavy woven blanket.

  “You did not say you were cold,” the warrior scolded her.

  “There was not really time for such things.” Arrow tucked the blanket around her, sighing in pleasure as the Erith fabric enveloped her, providing immediate relief.

  “True.”

  One of the shifkin padded quietly up the slope to speak with Zachary, words too low for Arrow to catch.

  “The chassis is twisted. You won’t be driving anywhere,” Zachary reported back. “We are going to the Hall first. Come, you can ride with me.”

  “Thank you,” Arrow said, recognising a command.

  CHAPTER 7

  Arrow’s visit to the Hall had been brief. By the time they had arrived, in pitch darkness, the effects of Thomas’ healing and the salve had worn off and she had been deeply grateful to simply be shown to a bedroom and allowed to sleep. Sleep did not last long. She had been woken before dawn by an unfamiliar ‘kin who had brought coffee and informed her that the White Guard were there and ready to leave when she was.

  Going outside into the sharp chill of too early in the morning, Arrow had found Kallish’s cadre waiting, along with a trio of sleek black vehicles, all the warriors immaculately dressed, Kallish herself exchanging pleasantries with Zachary, Xeveran providing unobtrusive translation. Lit by a pair of lamps outside the Hall, Zachary looked dangerous, a hard edge to his smile as Kallish handed Arrow a thick parchment, folded and sealed. The Preceptor’s seal. Even with a few hours’ rest and a mug of coffee inside her, Arrow had still needed to read the short note twice before the words made sense. The Preceptor wanted her help.

  Report to me at the Academy. There is work to do. The White Guard and Archivists have been instructed to lend you whatever aid you require.

  The writing was his, the bluntness typical. It was phrased as an order, although he surely knew she was not under his command any more.

  And yet there was a promise of aid. He may or may not believe there was another magician at work, another threat to the Erith, but she did. And that meant a threat steeped in magic, that the ‘kin nation had little knowledge of.

  The Archivists answered only to the Preceptor and their assistance meant that the entire knowledge of the Erith in all things magical was at her disposal. More than she could possibly have hoped for. And not something the Taellan could interfere with.

  The promise of the White Guard’s aid she could not puzzle out. For all that the Taellan issued orders, Lord Whintnath and his warriors answered only to the Queen. So she had, apparently, the aid of the Academy and its Archives, and that of the White Guard.

  Two parts of the triumvirate that governed the Erith acting against the third was something to give any sensible person pause. And no sensible person would get in the middle of it.

  She had been tempted to refuse. Very tempted. Part of her wanted to obey, because although she no longer had the pull of the oath spells in her blood, forcing her to compliance, she had a long-ingrained habit of obeying the Erith’s commands. The greater part of her was more cautious. A lifetime among the Erith and she knew how selfish they were. The Preceptor saw advantage to using her. He had bound her once, on the Taellan’s orders. It was possible he, or the Taellan, would try again. Unlikely, though, before she had done what they wanted. After their task was complete, then she would need to be far more wary.

  But, she realised, the realisation sending a trail of relief through her, she did not need to go back afterwards. The Taellaneth, and the Preceptor, were reachable from outside Erith borders. She could get the aid they offered and not put herself in further danger.

  A few moment’s thought, under the silent watch of a full cadre of warriors and the Prime, and she decided to see what the Preceptor wanted. He had offered aid.

  Zachary had accepted her decision with a searching look before handing her a small piece of card with Matthias’ mobile number written on it. The Prime was going to go to Hallveran, to help the muster there, but Matthias was still in Lix. Wincing a little, feeling somehow responsible for the situation in Hallveran, Arrow had accepted the card and left the Hall with no more ceremony.

  ~

  It seemed too short a time until she stood in front of the Taellaneth gates again, the various bruises across her body muted but sore, her neck stiff from sleeping for part of the journey in the back of one of the Erith vehicles. She had spent some of the journey refining her shields, hoping to avoid any more humans catching her unawares with tranquiliser darts. There had been a choice between healing and defence and, as always, she chose defence. Among the Erith it always paid to be careful. And now, no longer hampered by the oath spells, she could guard her person effectively.

  So, she was sore from head to toe as she looked up at the imposing gates of the Taellaneth and wondered for perhaps the fiftieth time if this was an elaborate trap. The cadre were gathered around her in a loose group, none apparently hostile. She was not restrained. Kallish herself had seen to Arrow’s comfort on the journey with a brisk efficiency that had not suggested detainment. And yet. The Taellan had held her close for many years. Free of her oaths and formally exiled, she was nonetheless back at the gates, pulled back by the Preceptor’s request and escorted by White Guard.

  Power rose in response to her nervousness, silver shimmer of wards flaring for a moment before she reasserted control. Despite working on her wards and the subtle healing she had applied on the journey here, knitting bones back together and easing some of the soreness in her muscles, she was still full of power. Enough for effective defence. She hoped. She wanted to get rid of the threat to the human world and keep her freedom, to explore life outside the Taellaneth.

  The small gate opened at Kallish’s approach, the warrior inside making a smart salute. The Taellan had demoted Kallish from her position as cadre leader, Arrow remembered with a small shock. That minor detail had not seemed important in the last few days. And yet Kallish was undoubtedly leading a cadre, and clearly had the respect of the warriors around her.

  “Mage.” Kallish’s voice had a trace of impatience.

  “Svegraen.” Arrow took a deep breath, still-healing ribs holding, and took the necessary steps forward to go through the Taellaneth gates. The sentry’s face twitched as she entered, a reaction she was familiar with.

  “We are required to report to Lord Whintnath,” Kallish said. “You have your own orders?”

  “I have the Preceptor’s request, yes.” The heavy piece of parchment scored with the Preceptor’s sprawling writing was safely tucked into a pocket, sealed with a minor spell. Some might call it paranoia. She called it a sensible precaution. She wondered again if this was a trap. The gate closed behind her, an entire cadre gathered about. If it was a trap, she was inside it now.

  Kallish said something, breaking into Arrow’s thoughts, something that sounded like a command for Arrow to wait at the Academy. Before Arrow had time to ask the warrior what she meant, the cadre were moving away, heading for the barracks.


  Abruptly aware of the gate guards watching the exchange with open interest, doubtless wondering why they had orders to allow an exile back into the Taellaneth, she closed her mouth and walked away.

  Properly inside the Taellaneth her lungs filled with familiar scents, the hum of Erith magic fizzed against her skin, and her eyes stung. She thought she had accepted her exile. Concentrating on keeping her composure, it took a few curious looks from a group of cadets, out on a morning run, for her to remember that she was still in human clothing, torn and mired from the past few days, covered by the heavy, armoured White Guard coat that was too large for her, the weight of it forcing her to a steady pace.

  The tips of her ears grew hot as she realised what an odd figure she must present. Even more so than the usual oddity of her mostly-human appearance among the Erith. However, the Taellan’s exile had not been countermanded so she could not return to her residence for her Court wear. She grit her teeth, put a hand on the parchment in her pocket to remind her why she was here, and kept walking, head up.

  She had been distracted enough to miss the normal path to the Academy and instead found herself on a longer path, which went past the Preceptor’s residence.

  The residence was a low building concealed amongst trees, modest only by comparison to the Taellan’s mansions. It had always seemed to her to be a pleasant place to live, affording the Preceptor a degree of privacy and comfort, with students discouraged from visiting by the thick wards cast about the building.

  Despite her distraction she paused mid-stride, blinking to make sure she had not imagined the sight. But no, every window and door of the Preceptor’s house that she could see was wide open, the air sparkling with housekeeping spells. Arrow blinked again. To her knowledge, despite the best efforts of the Taellaneth Steward, the Preceptor was as eager to have his house cleaned as he was to have someone clean his study. Which was to say, not at all. Neither had been cleaned by anyone other than the Preceptor himself, on the rare occasions he remembered to do so, in all the years Arrow had known him.

  Even more rare, and astonishing, was the small party of ladies, bright winter cloaks a sharp contrast to the snow-covered lawn. Unlike the gardens around the Taellaneth, the Preceptor did not clear away winter from his garden, letting the plants do as they pleased.

  Arrow shut her mouth with a click that reverberated in her skull, blinked again, then kept walking. There were clearly changes afoot in the Preceptor’s residence, and she would find out what before long. The entire Academy would be buzzing with idle speculation and gossip.

  As she reached the thicker copse of trees that screened the Preceptor’s house from the Academy, light footsteps sounded behind her. She paused, turning, seeing one of the bright-cloaked ladies from the garden coming towards her.

  “Arrow!” The voice, and the lady’s identity, startled her. She could not help the smile that spread across her face. No one could be in Vailla’s presence for long and not smile.

  “Lady Vailla!” She took a few steps back towards the lady, intending to make a polite bow. Vailla, with all the warmth and impulsiveness she had been famed for as a child, laughed, and threw her arms around Arrow, squeezing fiercely.

  “Oh, Arrow, so stiff and formal. Lady Vailla indeed!”

  “Well, you are.” Arrow smiled and returned the hug, awkward with the easy affection, enveloped in Vailla’s familiar scent, which was summer flowers and a hint of something deeper like mint.

  “Oh, you have barely changed!” The lady stepped back to arm’s length and looked Arrow up and down. “Apart from growing even taller, that is!”

  “You have grown, too,” Arrow answered. It was true that the lady would never be tall among the Erith, but she had grown from a petite child to a lady of medium height, her great, forest green eyes sparkling in a face of soft golden skin, dramatic, delicate bone structure framed by rich brown hair. None of the lady’s features on their own was remarkable but taken together she was unforgettable. Arrow felt a sharp pain in her chest. This poised and elegantly dressed Erith lady had been the closest thing to a friend she had among the Erith for many years.

  “Vailla!” Eimille vel Falsen’s sharp reprimand drew a darker look to the lady’s face.

  “A moment,” the lady said.

  “Now, if you please.” The Taellan was not to be put off by Vailla’s stubborn streak.

  “You had best go, my lady,” Arrow said, taking a step back.

  “Well, for now, perhaps.” Vailla measured the distance between them, eyes shading darker in thought. “But we will see each other soon, I hope.”

  “That is not likely, I am afraid. But it has been good to see you.” Arrow clipped her sentence short. This brief return to the Taellaneth was proving unexpectedly painful.

  “But we will be nearly neighbours. Very soon!” Vailla spun on her heel and waved to the Preceptor’s residence.

  “You are moving here?” Arrow was surprised. There was no connection between the Preceptor and the House Falsen that she could think of.

  “When I am wed, yes,” Vailla said serenely, tiny, fond smile playing about her mouth. Arrow felt her own mouth open, close, and try to shape a few words, not one sound emerging.

  “Wed?” she said at length, seeing the dark, angry shape of Eimille vel Falsen bearing down on them, the elder lady’s stare sparking amber.

  “Yes. Did no one tell you?” Vailla ignored her aunt, turning back to Arrow, eyes beginning to spark again. “Evellan asked for my hand, at last, and my dearest aunt agreed.”

  “I am happy for you,” Arrow managed, just as Eimille reached them.

  “You are not welcome here,” Eimille snapped at Arrow, cheeks flushed with colour.

  “Arrow is my friend, aunt,” Vailla said, slipping one hand into the crook of her aunt’s arm, squeezing gently.

  “This creature is not welcome,” Eimille repeated.

  “My lady vel Falsen.” Arrow bowed, cutting across whatever Vailla would have said. “Lady Vailla. I bid you good day.” She turned and continued on her way, not wanting to face the Taellan’s wrath or Vailla’s dismay. It was cowardly to run, she knew, keeping her pace even with effort. Cowardly, and perhaps her only sensible option. Eimille vel Falsen was angry enough to summon the White Guard to eject her, and she had to see the Preceptor first.

  ~

  Wanting to avoid more confrontation, Arrow slipped through one of the servants’ entries to the Academy and took the back ways to the Preceptor’s study. Her breathing was too rapid, pulse too quick, by the time she arrived, apprehension coiling through her. It took three tries to form a fist to knock at the door. Once managed, she was bade enter the room immediately.

  The door closed behind her, but she had no attention to spare for it, stepping into a room as transformed as the residence. The imposing desk was free of paper, the stacks now bundled into a new set of bookshelves, shelves already full. The surface of the desk gleamed, recently polished, as did the floor, the air pure, free of the motes of chalk dust that used to inhabit the room.

  Arrow took all this in with a swift glance, turning her attention to the Preceptor himself, also altered. She had last seen him pacing in front of the entrance to the underground below the Hessman residence, shadows coiling around him in restless waves, uneasy and furious that a surjusi incursion had happened so dangerously close to the Erith’s borders. The anger and fear were gone, replaced by apparent calm. Looking again, Arrow saw the faint trace of strain in the dark under his eyes, the ever-present shadows quiet around him, also a giveaway. Evellan was still worried.

  The act may be enough to calm Eimille, Arrow thought, but she doubted Vailla would remain fooled for long. Too carefully poised, he wore his usual teaching robes, yet looked utterly different. For a moment Arrow could not identify the change. Then she realised that under his teaching robes, for the first time she could recall, he wore not plain, dark clothing but brighter colours, a hint of sheen to his sleeves.

  It was just as well she had
had the shock of seeing Vailla and hearing her news, Arrow thought. The transformed study and Preceptor might have rendered her speechless otherwise. She was even more conscious of her shabby human clothing, the warrior’s coat offering her borrowed finery that she was not entitled to.

  “I will be a moment,” he said, glancing up when she came to stand in front of the desk. “Please sit and have some tea.”

  Now truly speechless, ingrained Court manners came to her rescue. She bowed slightly and moved to the low table and chairs set by one of the fireplaces. For all the hours spent in this room during her studies, she had never been invited to sit, or to take tea with the Preceptor or, indeed, any Erith. Following his suggestion, she poured herself a cup and chose the chair with the best view of the room including the door. Balancing precious, rare, Erith china in her hands, which looked too clumsy and worn to hold something so pretty, she wondered what else had changed.

  Erith tea was something she had only had a few times before when the staff at the Academy’s refectory forgot to withdraw it from her notice. The rich, translucent liquid was an assault on her senses, flavour and scent of herbs and spices rarely found outside Erith lands, and she had to blink back unexpected tears. A few days’ exile and she had, it seemed, missed the Taellaneth more than she had thought possible.

  “You have had an eventful few days,” Evellan remarked, coming to settle at one of the other chairs. He had removed his teaching robes, another shock. His beautifully crafted Court coat was burgundy, sparkling with discreet jet decoration at collars and fastenings. He wore the finery with the same confidence as his teaching robes and Arrow remembered something that she had not thought about for many years. Evellan had been born into a House, a favoured son, brought up among the Erith elite. The manners settled around him as easily as the shadows, mocking her cheap clothing, callused hands, and stiff manners.

  Some of the founding certainties of her life at the Taellaneth were being overturned, the ground under her far more uncertain than it had been, bound and deprived of magic, in the back of the kidnapper’s vehicle. Someone wishing her harm was far more familiar than this civilised, pleasant greeting.