Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  “Why are you here?”

  The creature was silent, unblinking eyes tracking every move she made as she came to a halt near Master Hustrai’s desk.

  “What first made you suspicious, sir?” she asked, keeping most of her focus on the thing.

  “He smiled.” The Master’s voice was raw. “And it was not Gesser.”

  She turned and looked long at the Master, the weariness dragging his face, the clenched hands, and the unexpected sheen of tears in his eyes, and drew conclusions.

  “He does not deserve your regard,” she said hoarsely.

  “No. He does not. But,” the Master sighed, and met her eyes, amber dulled in his own, a rare moment of honesty, “we cannot help who we love.”

  “No. We cannot.” Arrow felt the weight on her shoulders again. As little as she might like Gesser, and as little as she wished to obey a command from Gret vo Regresan ever again in her life, she could not ignore the Master’s pain. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Nothing.” The Master swallowed, and one tear escaped.

  “How touching.” The grating voice raised hairs on the back of Arrow’s neck.

  “We will see.” Arrow made a slow, careful circuit around the seated thing, second sight engaged. The blackness was nearly blinding. It had not had long to establish itself here, but the surjusi was nearly as powerful as the possessed Erith lord she had met in the shadows. Nearly but not quite. It had a complete hold of the young lord. A lord who, restored to his own mind, would sneer away Master Hustrai’s regard without a single thought.

  And a lord who, it seemed, had willingly called a surjusi into his person. She could see no broken fragments of wards, no signs of violence, nothing to suggest that the young fool had fought back or resisted the possession.

  Possessed, willingly, but not owning the necessary knowledge to call forth a demon and anchor it to him. Far too junior in his magical learning for that. He had had help.

  Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later when spotted a near-invisible layer of spells in the darkness, with a familiar signature. The rogue magician. The one with a fondness for unclean magic and consorting with surjusi. How had Gesser encountered that magician?

  “So, you are an acolyte,” she murmured.

  “I serve no one.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “It does not matter. You will not be alive long.”

  “Do you think you can kill me?”

  “I know I can.”

  The darkness surged up in second sight, swallowing all of Master Hustrai’s containment spells, blackening the classroom floor.

  “Get out! Now!” Arrow told the Potions Master, drawing her sword as she yelled. Her wards flared up, bright silver shadowing the dark.

  “A spirit sword?” The creature was angry, and mocking. “You think that can harm me?”

  For answer she gave him the words of the banishment spell, setting her will behind 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.”

  At the first repetition the creature growled, long and low, and despite the bright silver weapon she held, Arrow shivered head to toe. She never wanted to hear that noise again.

  Gesser’s body rose up from the stool, movements oddly uncoordinated, as though the spirit had not yet gained full control. Or, perhaps, it had little patience with the constraints of Erith bodies. It grabbed one of the workbenches in one hand and tried to hurl it across the room towards Arrow, a roar of anger following its failure.

  Arrow found one of her feet stuck to the floor and realised she had stepped in the seeping mass of potions. Now the creature was out of its containment, it could use the discarded spells.

  A quick, spoken, spell, and she touched the end of her sword to the sticky mass, setting it on fire, dragging her foot out of the mess as it exploded into flames, heat searing her skin, sending her scurrying away, and nearly into the hard, wooden frame of a stool, thrown across the room, followed swiftly by Gesser’s body.

  She was on her third repetition of the banishment spell now, and the creature was showing no signs of being affected. Silently damning Serran vo Liathius for his blithe assurance that the spell would work with three repetitions, she was about to start another round of three when her whole body seized, mind overwhelmed by flickering, confusing images. That damned book. The one from the Preceptor’s study.

  The knowledge unfolded too quickly for her to understand it, but something in her had grasped enough knowledge to act. Arrow’s arm turned, the sword blade held flat, crossways in front of her body, and she brushed her hand across the blade, leaving a streak of blood on the silver. A blade which should not cut flesh somehow became solid.

  “A new trick?” The voice sneered.

  She did not bother to answer, stepping towards the thing, arm moving to slash the bright edge of her sword through the blackness in the second world. The creature howled and rushed towards her. Arrow stuck out one foot and tripped the ungainly thing, sending Gesser’s body down to the blackened floorboards, following by thrusting the sword through his middle, shouting a final repetition of the banishment spell.

  Her skin was scorched as the blackness erupted, bursting out of Gesser in a violent wave. The body on the ground writhed and screamed, sound changing gradually from the unearthly roar of the creature to the cry of agony from an Erith pinned to the floor by a large sword.

  Arrow knelt by the lord, breathing hard. A short, brutal, fight and she was out of energy.

  “What have you done?” The cry of dismay was from Master Hustrai who, of course, had not left the room.

  “Dispatched the surjusi,” Arrow said, keeping her eyes on Gesser.

  “You killed him.”

  “He is alive. He needs a healer.”

  “You killed him!” The overwrought Master surged towards Arrow and, too late, she saw the long, curving knife in his hand. She put up an arm to protect her face, wards flaring, waiting for the blow to fall.

  It never did. She looked up a moment later to find Hustrai on the ground, stunned expression on his face, a stool pinning him to the ground.

  Glancing across the room door she saw the war mage in the open door, hands raised, another stool hovering in the air before him.

  “My thanks,” she said. He nodded, and the stool slid back to the floor to join its fellows.

  “The wards are down. Healers are on their way,” he told her, coming into the room, eyes widening as he looked around.

  Arrow followed his gaze and sighed. The room was destroyed, from the blackened floorboards to the shattered workbenches.

  “I did not break the potions cabinet,” she said defensively. The mage’s mouth kicked up in a smile.

  “Were you responsible for everything else?”

  “Well, the surjusi was.”

  “Impressive.” Kallish stepped through the door, one hand on a weapon, but otherwise apparently relaxed. The warrior’s mouth twitched as she looked up at the ceiling. Arrow looked up and groaned, heat scoring her face again as Kester followed Kallish into the room, eyes following the warrior’s gaze. The ceiling was a scorched mess, arcs of soot showing where the potions fire had cast off. And most of the room’s surfaces were covered with the fine, dark ash she associated with surjusi banishment.

  “If I was not already exiled, I certainly would be now,” she muttered to herself, and turned her attention back to Gesser as he groaned. “Stay still, idiot. You have a sword through your middle.”

  “A-arrow? What … Ow!” He tried to curl around his wound, only to be held by Kallish’s boot on one shoulder.

  “A clean wound,” Kallish noted. “Well done, mage.”

  “Thank you.” Arrow felt her face heat up. That had been pure luck as she had no idea what she should have been aiming for.

  “Clean? A clean wound?” Gesser shrieked. “You stabbed me, y
ou … runt. You will be punished for this!”

  “Oh, do be quiet.” Kester was not amused.

  “What?”

  “You allowed a surjusi to be planted in you,” Arrow said, catching and holding the lord’s eyes with her gaze, silver prominent. “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Answer.” Arrow put her will behind her words.

  “I … wanted … power. Tired of … being overlooked.” The words came out unwillingly, the lord’s face twisted in hate.

  “And who helped you?”

  “No-one.” He giggled. An odd reaction that had Arrow tightening her grip on her blade. He hissed with pain as the sword moved.

  “Careful,” she told the others, “he may not be clean yet.”

  “I cannot sense any taint,” Kallish commented, but drew a sword and stayed close, battle ward shimmering around her.

  “He is not tainted,” the unnamed war mage said, hands up before him, flicker of power across his fingers showing Arrow he had spells prepared, ready for combat. The mage tilted his head. “But there is something else.”

  “Let me up!” Hustrai wriggled on the ground. The mage sighed and moved fractionally, ready to assist the Master.

  “No!” Arrow rose, pulling her sword up with her, and leaping across Gesser’s body. Hustrai got to his feet all on his own, a familiar black coating his eyes.

  “You are stronger than we expected.” The Master’s lips moved, forming words that grated Arrow’s ears. “We will not forget that.” And the Master’s hand moved, drawing the long dagger swiftly across his throat.

  Arrow’s cry was drowned in the others’. Master Hustrai’s lifeblood soared out of his body, pouring across the ceiling. The spray covered Arrow, fine drops a mist that fizzed against wards as the mage, Kallish, and Kester moved towards the Master, voicing a collective, wordless protest. Far too late.

  “No.” Arrow’s soft denial was lost in the dull thump as the Master’s body hit the floor, twitching slightly as the last of his blood flowed out, forming a pool around him. She stood, unable to move, sword held ready, watching as Kallish knelt by the Master, assessed his wound, then shook her head.

  “What have you done, you stupid bitch.” Gesser’s thin voice called her attention back and she glanced over her shoulder to find the lord clutching his middle, trying to stop his blood from seeping out. She stared down at her sword, seeing the silver length solid and real in the first world, and shuddered.

  “Healers are on their way,” Kallish said grimly, rising to her feet, “and if you can still speak, you will live, young lord.”

  Arrow found a scrap of cloth in her pockets and cleaned the silver length with absent, mechanical movements, fingers trembling, sheathing the sword across her back before going to kneel beside Hustrai.

  “He did not deserve this,” she murmured, looking up when a shadow appeared on the other side of the body. The war mage was also kneeling.

  “No, he did not. He was a kind soul.”

  Arrow half-reached out, wanting to close the Master’s eyes, still open and staring at the ceiling, but checked herself. There would be questions. And it was not her place to ready him for his next journey.

  “A spirit sword, young mage?” the other mage asked.

  “Yes.” She straightened to her feet, suddenly weary and sick to her stomach. The short, brutal fight had barely tapped her power and yet she wanted to curl under covers and sleep for a month. Hustrai’s body lay as an accusation on the floor. Another failure.

  “One has not been forged for over a hundred years.”

  “So I have been told.” She fought to keep her voice even.

  “But you are not a war mage, young thing.”

  “The Academy and Preceptor would disagree.” She was too tired. Covered in the black ash of surjusi and Hustrai’s blood. She had no time for whatever game the mage was playing so soon after the surjusi’s taunting.

  “A shadow-walker pays a high price for battle magic,” the other mage said, voice sounding distant, “particularly where there is death. Have you never wondered why you carry the stain of death so long?”

  Attention caught, she stared at the unfamiliar face for a long moment. He bore her gaze with no sign of discomfort, folding his hands in his sleeves, settled comfortably on his feet, prepared to wait. There was no disdain in his face or voice. He seemed genuinely curious.

  “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Gilean!” Orlis’ voice, delighted, full of bright, vibrant life, lit the room. The mage looked across to the door, and the heat of his expression made Arrow look away. The mage and Orlis exchanged a quick embrace, unabashed in their affection.

  “Gilean vo Presien. I am honoured.” She made a bow.

  “As I am I.”

  “Do you deliberately write badly for the Preceptor’s letters?” Arrow asked, the first thing that came to her mind that did not involve blood or surjusi or the destruction of the classroom. The mage laughed, eyes lighting with mischief.

  “Not entirely.”

  “We only find time to write on journeys,” Orlis explained, shoulder to shoulder with Gilean, “and often on horseback.”

  Arrow could not suppress a bark of laughter.

  “Gilean,” Kester said carefully, making a respectful small bow.

  “Kester. You have turned out well.”

  “Thank you,” the warrior answered evenly, a wry smile twisting his mouth.

  “Mage.” Kallish was frowning. “Why are you out of the heartland?”

  And that was a very good question, Arrow realised. Reputedly the Queen’s favourite mage, Gilean vo Presien was famed not only for his bad handwriting but also his enjoyment of travel. Erith legend had it that Erith lands stretched further than the maps had chartered, and Gilean was determined to explore them all.

  “Not here. Not now,” he replied easily, eyes flicking momentarily in Gesser’s direction, the young lord still moaning softly.

  Arrow had some sympathy with the spoiled Erith lord, but only a little. It must hurt to have a sword wound through your middle, but it had hurt when the lord had deliberately broken three of her fingers, savaging them joint by joint. He had only laughter to offer her then. Him and his friends. All confident that they could do what they pleased to her, without fear of repercussion. As had been proved.

  Her right hand clenched, misaligned fingers refusing to curl into a proper fist, a constant reminder of the young lord’s cruelty, and, if she needed it, a constant reminder of the Erith’s bare tolerance for her existence. As Orlis had shown by restoring her other hand, an Erith healer could have set the bones back entirely straight. Instead, they had done as little as possible. The hand was functional; not fully, but sufficient for spellwork, which was all that had interested the healers.

  Shadows in the doorway preceded the arrival of four healers. Two from House Regresan, two from House Regersfel. Arrow’s eyebrows twitched. The elder must want a direct report of the matter. For once she was glad of her banishment; the elder might want her punished, but he no longer had the ability to do so.

  That would not prevent either the elder or Gret vo Regresan from trying, and they were each capable of setting the White Guard after her.

  “You know where to find me if you need me, svegraen,” she told Kallish. “Mage.” She bowed her head slightly, and skirted around the bustling, dismayed healers, on her way to the door.

  Lord Whintnath himself was coming along the corridor, his personal guard around him. She stepped to one side to let him past, taken aback as he paused.

  “The threat is gone?”

  “The surjusi is banished.” Her voice was heavy with the weight of Master Hustrai’s death.

  “The threat?”

  “The young lord called surjusi into him, and had help to do so,” she told the White Guard commander, holding his eyes, her own full of silver. “I do not believe the threat is clear.”

  “That is a serious accusation, Arrow,” the comman
der said, face stiff. An observation, not a challenge, she noted.

  “Have him questioned.”

  “We heard the lord admit it.” Gilean’s voice was too close. She was very tired of people creeping up behind her.

  “I see.” Lord Whintnath closed his eyes momentarily, shadows across his face. When he opened them, he had himself under control. “Lias, make sure there is a cadre to guard the young lord. And he will be cared for in the barracks until we can determine he is no longer a threat.”

  “Svegraen.” The leader of Whintnath’s third made a shallow bow and strode away to carry out her orders.

  “Lord vo Regresan will protest,” Kester commented.

  “Let him. That young lord has had far too much freedom for too long,” the commander said, voice edged. Arrow felt her right hand clenching again and stopped the movement.

  “You were leaving, Arrow?” Gilean asked.

  “I have outstayed my welcome.”

  “We will want a statement from you,” Whintnath told her.

  “Kallish and Orlis can both find me.”

  A disturbance further along the corridor drew her attention and she saw the too-familiar figure of Eshan nuin Regersfel bearing towards her.

  “Burthris, we have not finished with the scene yet. Inform the Chief Scribe of that and ensure that no one apart from the guard and senior Teaching Master is permitted into the building.” Whintnath’s voice was calm.

  “Svegraen.” The next senior of his third bowed, a smile tugging his lips before the warrior went to meet the Chief Scribe, something of a spring in his stride.

  “There is a side entrance,” Whintnath nodded down a nearby corridor, “and Kallish will escort you to the gate with her cadre. My thanks, Arrow.” He gave her a small bow and moved on.

  Arrow’s mouth shut with a snap. The White Guard commander did not bow to half-breed outcasts or extend his thanks. She stared after his back a moment trying to puzzle out what had happened. Praise or thanks were not what she expected from the Erith. She could not understand the behaviour, and her skin was itching, telling her she had lingered too long. She turned to continue on her way.