Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

“The Palace, of course. Where else?”

  “I cannot go to the heartland.” The Taelleisis. Loosely translated from ancient Erith, it meant the heart of the world. The Taellaneth had been created to be the mind of the Erith, to govern through the hands of the world, the Taellan, but the Taelleisis was where the Erith came from. The precious heartland.

  A wash of old bitterness gripped her. Made useful by the oath spells, her access to Erith lands had been severely restricted. It took effort to hold herself quite still, to not close her fingers around the cup, to keep her voice steady.

  “You have never been, you mean.” Orlis frowned.

  “No, I mean I cannot go. Even if I were not an exile, the Taellan passed an edict to forbid my presence any further into the Erith lands than the Taellaneth grounds and the far borders where required.” That last addendum had stung Seggerat, she knew, forced to make the concession to allow her access to the Erith’s administrative complex and the lands that lay between the Taellaneth and Lix.

  “Edict?” Orlis’ surprise almost made Arrow smile. A formal edict was a rare thing. Made only by a near-unanimous decision of the Taellan, it required a similar majority, or the Queen’s formal word, to overturn.

  “A pox on them. I had forgotten.” Evellan drew a breath, harsh and loud, drawing Arrow’s attention. She did not remember that his lungs had been damaged, but it was possible she had missed it among everything else. He thought for a moment, brow creased, pale tint around his mouth which might have been irritation or pain. “It is not like Gilean to vanish like this. There appeared to have been a struggle in his rooms. Some blood was found. Her Majesty is convinced some harm has come to him and that magic is involved.” The Erith Queen’s instincts were famed among the Taellan, and had rarely been wrong, from what Arrow knew. Those instincts had led to the lasting peace with humans and ‘kin, however much some of the older Erith still craved war with their long-time enemies.

  “My lord.” She could not continue for a moment. She had always wanted to see the Erith heartlands, even once, tormented for years by Academy students who, on learning that she was banned, would then tell her stories of the heartland that made it sound the most wondrous place in existence, with power laced in the air, magical creatures commonplace, and an astounding natural beauty which, they said, far outstripped the Taellaneth. With each new intake of students there was a new wave of the fashion of disdain for the Taellaneth and the Academy generally. Arrow wanted to see for herself. She was honest enough to admit, in her own mind, that she partly wanted to prove to herself that the students’ stories were more imagination than reality, and partly simply curious about what was so special about the Erith heartland that Seggerat had used his influence to secure the edict barring her from entry.

  But. She was barred from the heartland, the edict specifying the punishment for breaching the order was death. Not worth the risk, in her view. And, more than that, she was no longer bound to the Erith’s service. A month in the human world and she was enjoying exploring her new freedom. Freedom to act. Freedom to choose. And the ability to choose, to say no, was powerful. There were a host of others more capable than she was of tracking down a war mage.

  “My lord. This is not a task for me. Perhaps Kallish nuin Falsen and her cadre?”

  “No, no. Too noisy. Too clumsy.” Clumsy was the last word Arrow would use for the warrior. And she thought a cadre of White Guard was likely to attract far less attention than she would. If Seggerat was to be believed, she was anathema to most Erith, likely to provoke their immediate disgust.

  “My presence in the Palace would likely cause a riot. Hardly quiet.” Arrow heard the bitterness in her voice, unable to suppress it, and took a sip of tea, the flavours of the Erith rich on her tongue after so long in the human world. Orlis’ mouth twisted as though he wanted to disagree, but could not.

  “Riot! Of course!” Evellan sat up quickly, then winced, white showing around his mouth, and sank back onto the cushions. “Orlis, writing paper, ink, my seal.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  Orlis moved about the room with no hesitation, clearly familiar with the Preceptor’s space and used to the request, and in short order was holding paper steady on a writing board over the Preceptor’s knees, Evellan scowling at the parchment as if it had personally offended him. Orlis’ expression was blank, for once, and all Arrow could see was that the Preceptor was writing a few lines in large handwriting, bold and strong despite his injuries.

  There was no point in pressing Evellan for answers. He would tell her when he was ready and not a moment before, so she finished her tea and the morning scone that Orlis had provided, a rare treat that tasted far better fresh than two days old and grudgingly handed to her, the Taellaneth’s chief cook despising waste more than her.

  At length the Preceptor was done, placing a large amount of wax and ribbon at the foot of his note and impressing his seal, infusing it with power. The effort cost him and he sank back with a gasp, breathing lightly for a few moments before beckoning Arrow across. She rose, ingrained habit of obedience to his wishes taking her to his side before she really knew what she was doing.

  “You are now an Inquirer,” he told her, words interspersed with shallow, harsh breaths.

  Shock held her still and she almost asked him to repeat himself, except that he had sounded perfectly lucid. And determined. There was a set to his mouth and jaw she recognised.

  An Inquirer Extraordinary, appointed by one of the triumvirate of power among the Erith for a specific mission, had power to open doors even the Taellan could not, second only to the Queen for the duration of their mission. And whatever he might have done, Evellan was still head of the Academy, head of one of the triumvirate. Stunned to silence, she waited as he gathered himself before continuing. “Go. In my place. Find Gilean.”

  “No.” The word was out, flat and implacable, before she quite knew what she was saying. She did not take the parchment held out to her. “The Erith have no more call on me. You have no more call on me. My service is done. Over. There are others capable of finding Gilean.”

  “You would let pride stop you from helping?” Evellan was furious, white around his mouth.

  “I have no pride where the Erith are concerned.” Her voice was still flat. Better than tears. Better than the fury she could feel coursing through her. She had been used by the Erith once too often. “You have no call on me,” she reminded him.

  “We can pay you.” His lip curled, showing what he thought of that. A mercenary.

  “No.” She straightened her spine. “Find someone else. I am sorry.” She addressed that last to Orlis, who looked stricken. “Good day to you.”

  And she turned, ignoring the incoherent outburst from Evellan and Orlis’ quiet plea, and left, going out of the residence and back along the path towards the gates.

  ~

  There was a lead weight in her chest. She had the right to refuse. She had the ability to choose. She was not bound to the Erith. And yet. Some instinct was telling her that it was a mistake to refuse. That the Erith might need her, after all.

  It did not matter. She thought of the workspace. Of the maps and plans barely formed. Of the backpack tucked away. Of the quiet acceptance by the ‘kin. A contrast to the sneers she was used to from the Erith. She had, as she had told the Preceptor, done her service. All her dues were paid.

  Rapid footsteps behind her made her turn quickly, wards flaring for a moment before she recognised Orlis.

  He stopped, slightly out of breath, just outside the range of her wards, his eyes travelling over them.

  “You think you are in danger here?”

  “Always among the Erith,” she answered. She would be foolish beyond belief to ever forget that. The misaligned fingers of her hand clenched in memory and she forced them open.

  “Something is very wrong,” Orlis told her bluntly. “Gilean was acting oddly when he was here. And why was he here? He normally sends letters.”

  “Orlis,�
� Arrow began, exasperated.

  “No. Listen. Something is wrong. Gilean is missing. It is not like him.” Orlis ran both hands through his hair, struggling for words. That caught Arrow’s attention more than anything he had said. Orlis was never at a loss for words. He took a few paces away and turned back. “Gilean was worried. He did not tell me why he was here. He always tells me. We-” He broke off, shook his head, and Arrow saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “We argued about it before.”

  More than a mere argument, Arrow guessed, from the tension in Orlis’ body and the way he would not meet her eyes. Gilean, a war mage used to keeping secrets. Orlis, a curious, lively mind who revelled in information. A dangerous companion for a war mage, she thought. But clearly Gilean considered it worth the risk.

  “So now he tells me. Even if he cannot tell me everything, he tells me there is something. But not this time. He refused. Whatever it was he thought it was more important than-” His voice choked and a tear fell, catching the light.

  More important than me. Arrow had no difficulty in filling in the unsaid words. Still, she hesitated. This was no business of hers. And yet. A war mage did not scare easily, and was even harder to capture.

  She moved a fraction, more fully facing Orlis, and caught his attention away from whatever inner fury he was dealing with.

  “So you think whatever it was that brought him here, to the Taellaneth, has caused him harm?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you want me to find Gilean?”

  “Yes.”

  That one word seemed to be all he could manage.

  Arrow shoved her hands in her coat pockets, a human gesture that would have earned her instant reprimand in the Taellan’s service. Hidden from view, her fingers clenched. One misaligned hand. One perfect. Perfect thanks to Orlis’ healing. The sorry mess of broken bones he had applied his skill to. Saving her life, perhaps. As he had done when he healed a bullet wound before that. A mage without use of her hands was all but defenceless, left with only her voice to craft spells, a voice that could all too easily be stopped. And a mage bleeding to death was no use at all.

  She let out a long breath. Orlis had healed her as a matter of course. He was asking for nothing in return for the healing, freely given. Any pull of obligation she felt was hers alone. The first person she had met who had mixed heritage. Someone who had accepted her immediately, with open curiosity.

  Invisible hands, Gilean’s and Orlis’, pressed each shoulder. A personal plea from Orlis. A graver plea from Gilean. Something had worried a war mage enough to bring him to the Taellaneth, a place he had not visited in Arrow’s lifetime, and to conceal his reasoning from his life companion, at the risk to that relationship.

  And underneath that, she had to be honest with herself, was the opportunity to visit the heartland. To see for herself the fabled home of the Erith. And to avoid a death sentence, with the Preceptor’s orders giving her access.

  Even with the decision made, she stood for long moments, apprehension, obligation and curiosity warring within her. Going to the heart of the Erith was dangerous. The Erith were dangerous. And yet she would go.

  “I will need your help.” The words were dragged out of her.

  “Yes.” That word again, the tone completely different. To her shock, and discomfort, Orlis took a few steps forward and flung his arms around her, enveloping her in a hug that threatened to break ribs, her lungs full of the warm scent of burnt amber, Erith magic, and a richer hint of something green, Orlis’ personal scent.

  She self-consciously straightened her coat when he released her.

  “I will need the parchment.”

  “Here.” He pulled it out of his satchel, the once-pristine surface slightly creased, ribbons tangled until he straightened them before holding it out.

  She took it, forcing herself to read slowly, absorbing each word. Even so she had to read it three times to be certain. By that time each word was impressed on her mind. The missive stated simply that the Preceptor had appointed the mage known as Arrow as an Inquirer Extraordinary to investigate the whereabouts of Gilean vo Presien and to seek justice for any harm done to Gilean. All under Erith law were to aid her. She was authorised to pursue anyone who had caused harm or detained the war mage and to deal such punishment as she considered necessary.

  Her hand shook slightly, ribbons fluttering where they hung from the bottom of the page, eyes going back to the bald statement requiring aid. That one line on its own was a significant gift of power.

  “That should work.” Orlis’ voice was full of satisfaction as he unashamedly read over her shoulder. His grief and worry had faded, eyes bright with determination, jaw set.

  “Providing the Preceptor’s authority is recognised.” Arrow’s voice was faint, mind beginning to consider the magnitude of the authority she had been granted. The last Inquirer Extraordinary, appointed more than a hundred years before, by no less a person than the Queen, had arrested one of the Taellan. She read the words again, knowing she was putting off action, struggling to take it all in. The Preceptor had made her an oath-bound servant and now an Inquirer Extraordinary. An enormous change.

  And yet she was under no illusions. It was not trust but desperation that had led the Preceptor to change her status so drastically. If Gilean had not been the subject of the order, it would be Gilean standing with this parchment in his hands, she was quite sure. The Preceptor considered her useful, a tool he had deployed in the past. The order was simply to make her more efficient at the task.

  And still she had accepted the order. Not for Evellan, but for Orlis and for herself.

  She would, as she had told him, need Orlis’ help. An assistant, and a guide in the maze that was the Palace. Not to mention the heartland. Her heart skipped. Not even in her most outrageous day-dreaming had she imagined being permitted into the heartland, let alone the Palace itself.

  “His authority has not been revoked. If that was going to happen, it would have been done already,” Orlis said, voice full of certainty, cutting through her spiralling thoughts. Arrow had to take his word for it as he was far more familiar with the Palace and its politics. “We will need transport and, well, new clothes for you.”

  Arrow looked down at herself and her lips twitched, trying to imagine the reaction of the Erith to a mixed-blood, exiled, unNamed mage wandering the heartland in human clothes.

  “I will need copies of this, too.”

  “Go speak to the Archivists,” Orlis told her, “and I will arrange everything else.”

  Before Arrow quite knew what he was doing, or what he had meant by everything else, he was gone, strides quick and purposeful.

  CHAPTER 4

  Securing the Archivists’ assistance in copying the Preceptor’s order was far easier than Arrow had expected, even with the Archivists’ curiosity and their offer of tea. They made copies as they pelted her with questions. Orlis returned, as if by magic, as she was leaving the Archives, the journeyman carrying a travel sack and a bundle of clothes which he handed to her before pushing her into a disused study room and telling her to change.

  Changing out of her human made clothing, Arrow realised that the items handed to her were the clothes she had been given when she had been under the watchful eye of Kallish and her cadre. Erith made clothing, beautifully fashioned, finer than anything else she owned. Narrow-legged trousers long enough to mostly disguise her human-made boots and a soft over-tunic that allowed her freedom of movement. It should pass unnoticed among the Erith at the Palace.

  Stomach tight with nerves at the thought of visiting the heart of the Erith, she followed Orlis out of the Archives and towards the Academy, mind turning to the next practical question, that of how to get to the Palace. The Taellaneth had horse-drawn carriages she should be able to commandeer. She had no clear idea of how long a journey it would be to the Palace, but suspected several days, even with famed Erith horses. Time enough, she hoped, to adjust to her new status, prepare for the heartland, and to
ask Orlis for information. That decided in her own mind, she then noticed that Orlis was not leading her towards the stables but deeper into the Academy.

  “Where are we going? The heartland is the other way.”

  “Mirror travel,” Orlis told her briefly. He glanced across, a shadow on his face for a moment. “The relay was already being opened. We are just taking advantage.”

  Arrow’s feet checked, and her mouth opened in protest before she snapped her jaw shut. It was not what she would have chosen, but it was practical.

  Orlis led the way to the Preceptor’s study in the Academy building. A third of White Guard were already present, standing watch around the Preceptor’s vast sheet of mirrorglass, three of the teaching staff working together to hold the connection stable to a stone room at the other side, another robed mage visible.

  “We are nearly ready,” the seniormost Teaching Master said, strain of holding the magic evident in his rigid posture.

  “My apologies. I was delayed.” Kester vo Halsfeld entered the room, a travel sack of his own on his back, dressed formally, and with a band of deep purple silk around one arm. Arrow flinched back, unable to stop herself, the memory of his rigid fury and her own absolute confusion too vivid. Thankfully, no one was paying her any attention.

  “It is quite alright,” the Teaching Mistress said, her voice softening as she went on, “we were all so sorry to hear about Teresea. She was a gentle soul.”

  “Yes, she was. Thank you.” Kester’s face was tight and closed, eyes barely touching Arrow as he looked around the room. “Good day to you.” He stepped forward into the portal, appearing a moment later beside the mage in the stone chamber.

  The teaching staff turned to Arrow next, one of the master’s faces tightening in disapproval, an expression she was heartily familiar with.

  “You go next,” Arrow told Orlis, palms prickling, feet twitching with the urge to run. She hated mirror travel. He lifted a brow in surprise but stepped through without hesitation or protest. Arrow gave her thanks to those gathered, both as a courtesy and a further moment’s delay, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.