The bed, almost as big as Arrow’s entire residence at the Taellaneth, was covered with a patterned quilt in stylised patterns of leaves and flowers, its rippled surface flat across the bed except for the slender length at one side.
He was so small, Arrow thought, from her position by the door. So much smaller than he had seemed in life, with his will and intelligence dominating every space he was in.
In this refined, quiet space he was reduced to a slight dent under the quilted cover, his own stillness a reflection of the room.
She forced herself to move forward, to close the door behind her and approach the bed. On the stand beside his head there was a carafe of water, an empty glass that looked untouched, a glass lantern with the end of a candle inside, long since died out, and a small portrait in a wooden frame.
Careful not to disturb anything, Arrow bent and looked at the portrait, a sharp pain striking her chest as she recognised the subject. Alisemea. It was possible that Seggerat had kept a portrait of his long-dead child next to him at all times. Arrow doubted it. In the same way she doubted that Seggerat had died in his sleep. Someone had placed the portrait there. As someone had placed a book in the library that also connected to Alisemea.
She turned, finally, to Seggerat himself. He was paler than normal, and too frail, the skin of his face sinking across his bones, showing the shape of his skull in sharp relief, defined lines of his features the product of centuries of a pure Erith bloodline, untainted by any other race.
She found her hands clenched into fists and loosened them with conscious effort, drawing a slow breath in. Calm was surprisingly difficult to find. Seggerat had been everything but warm to her in life and yet her chest ached with the knowledge that her last direct living relative was dead.
Grandfather.
The word, never spoken aloud, sounded strange in her mind, a clumsy set out sounds like her first attempts to learn the common language. She tried it again.
Grandfather.
No better. Worse, in fact, as the word had acquired hard edges which hurt.
It did not suit the unyielding face Seggerat had presented to her. She knew that he had other grandchildren, products of children from his second vetrai. She wondered if he had ever been kind or generous to them, and could not picture it.
The hurt made her draw a sharp breath before she packed it away, suppressed the ache and disciplined her mind, years of practice at the Academy coming to her aid. There was work to do. Finding out how he had died.
Even assuming a work-like front she could not bring herself to touch his remains, calling power instead, gently folding the quilt down to find him lying perfectly straight on his back, arms folded across his chest, soft white of his fine lawn nightgown smooth and undisturbed. There had been no obvious violence in this death. Second sight did not show her any active spells around his body, though she was troubled by his posture. Laid out for the funeral rites, even his hair smooth.
There was the faintest trace of disturbance in the air around him, the slightest trace of something or someone else, too faint for her to follow, even fully into the second world. The disturbance led away from the body, to a corner of the room that held the discreet, hidden door to the servants’ passageway. There the disturbance pooled, as though whoever had created it had stood, waiting. For what, she did not yet know. Marking the location in her mind, she turned back to look at the room from this angle. The whole room was clearly visible, including the two other doors, one to the hallway and one that probably led to a dressing room. A good place to lie in wait if you knew that there were no servants due.
The edges of her vision blurred, normally a sign she had pushed herself too hard. Not today. Her power had recovered from the rallestran and was vivid inside her, eager for use. She tried another breath and coughed, lungs not working properly, coughed again. Her wards flared in alarm and she moved, stumbling towards the door to the hallway. Lungs burning, she fell to her hands and knees, effort of breathing loud and harsh in her ears as she crawled, shaking with effort, towards the door, vision fading as she went.
The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was the door opening and a pair of polished boots coming towards her.
~
“You do get into trouble without me,” Kallish said cheerfully.
“H-how-” Arrow choked, coughed, and breathed, a great, heaving breath that wheezed into her starved body. She was sitting propped up against a wall in the entrance hall, grateful thanks of various monarchs for House Regersfel’s service above her head.
“Wanted to escape the crowd,” the warrior said, no guilt in the admission, “and thought there might be something interesting where you were. What happened?”
Arrow breathed a moment more, ache easing from her lungs, thinking about what she had found.
“Someone changed the air in that room,” she concluded. “There was no active spellwork around the bed or the body. But there was a disturbance in the air, and …” Her voice failed into more coughing. Kallish handed her a flask, the ritual becoming familiar. She still had Kester’s flask in her pocket, she remembered, but accepted Kallish’s offering. Arrow sipped the Erith tea for a moment. “Passive spell,” she continued, “which I could not identify. It was not battle magic.”
“Changed the air.” Kallish sat back on her heels, head tilted, apparently deep in thought. “Someone has an interest in history.”
“Pardon?”
“Some time ago there was a series of unexplained deaths in the heartland. A number of very prominent people died apparently in their sleep. No one could work out why until-” Kallish stiffened, amber flaring in her eyes. “Until the Lady Teresea was called to the scene and saw the trace of magic.”
“A reader would have spotted it,” Arrow agreed, trying a deep breath. When she did not immediately begin coughing again, she decided she could stand. Kallish rose with her.
“A disturbance you said?”
“Yes. Someone else was in the room. They left almost no trace.”
“Can you follow them?”
“I can try. I am not sure-”
“Good. Xeveran.” Kallish did not raise her voice much but a moment later Xeveran put his head round the door to the hallway, the babble of noise confirming that none of the House had left, Eshan’s complaining tone cutting through the rest as he continued to protest that the abomination had been allowed inside.
“Kallish?”
“You are in charge here until I get back.” Kallish’s lips twitched as Xeveran made a very unprofessional grimace before ducking back into the corridor. “Come on, then.”
“Should we tell Miach?” Arrow hesitated.
“And share the fun? No.” Kallish turned to the door as it opened again and Kester and Orlis slipped through, closing the door firmly behind them.
“You found something?” Kester asked.
“A disturbance.” Kallish’s eyes gleamed. “There was someone else in the room. We are going to follow.”
“We will come, too.” Orlis lifted his chin.
“Stay out of the way, then,” Kallish ordered, and nodded her head to Arrow. “Lead on.”
“Be careful crossing the bedroom. Try not to breathe,” Arrow warned them, taking a deep breath herself before opening the door to the bedroom and walking through, not pausing to look at Seggerat’s body, reaching the servants’ door and opening it with little fuss to reveal a spotless, gloomy corridor beyond, wide enough for a servant and tray to pass through, but not for two people to comfortably walk side by side.
“A servant?” Orlis sounded sceptical.
“Hush, young thing,” Kallish reprimanded from just behind Arrow’s shoulder.
Arrow ignored them as best she could, sliding back into the second world, finding that slight disturbance and following it.
The trail took them a good distance, as far as she could tell, blind to the first world, having to stop several times as the faint thread dissipated amongst other, far stronger trace
s. Genuine servants, going about their business. The thread was faint enough that she would normally have believed it several months old, and yet it crossed over the more vivid traces of the servants, telling her it was very recent.
Finally there was a solid door in front of her, Palace wards bright in the second world, and another small pause in the trail, showing whoever it was had waited here a moment before going through the door.
Arrow put her hand out and pushed open the door, stepping through into blindness, the brilliance and complexity of the spellwork in this new place overwhelming her fully-opened second sight.
A moment later and the world shifted and spun as something in the first world knocked her aside.
She slid along a polished surface, scrabbling her way back into the first world even as she tried to stop her movement and her wards flared around her.
The first world was shadowed and full of the sound of steel on steel. Swords. Fighting. She managed to get her knees under her and kept low, trying to see through the gloom. Night time. No magic involved. She whispered the necessary spell to enhance her vision and found Kallish and Kester facing off against a dozen opponents in a uniform she recognised, Orlis hovering behind them, calling mage fire to his hands.
“Hold!” she called, coming to her feet. “Stand down! We are sent by Miach.”
The White Guard cadre who had been attacking Kallish and Kester stopped at once, backing away from the bared steel. Arrow murmured another spell, harder without chalk, and threw sparks of light up into the air.
They were in the ruined library, all the bookshelves now on the floor, deserted apart from the alert cadre and Arrow’s group.
“How did you get here?” The leader demanded.
“Attacking without warning?” Kallish snapped back, sword still out. “Not the usual way.”
“Nothing is usual at the moment, svegraen.” The leader sighed, and sheathed his sword. His cadre followed suit, Kallish and Kester also putting away their weapons. Behind them Orlis lowered his hands, the small spark of mage fire he had been building dying out.
“We were following the trail of someone who was in Seggerat vo Regersfel’s room when he died,” Arrow told them. “He came in here.”
“Impossible. This place has been under guard the whole time, and apart from you there has been no one else inside.”
“Then he must have hidden from you, because his trail comes through here.”
“Can you find it again?” Kallish asked.
“No. There is too much active spellwork in here.” Arrow looked around, remembering the wonder of her first sight of this library, perhaps gone forever. “If we can find where he left I might be able to trace it.”
“There has been no one through here,” the leader insisted again.
“Then perhaps he is still here?” Kallish suggested.
The leader swore, sending a third to guard the main doors with a quick gesture. “Then let us search.”
Arrow was getting familiar with the routine of White Guard searching, careful to keep behind Kallish and Kester as they and the other two thirds of the cadre made their way through the library, past its many bookcases and the ruin that was the site of Lady Teresea’s death. Nothing. Also becoming familiar.
Every warrior was frustrated and worn by the time they were finished searching and had confirmed that there was, indeed, nothing to find. No hidden magician or assassin ready to leap out and attack them.
Head aching from use of magic, her second sight as sharpened as she could make it, Arrow had no explanation as to why she could not find any further trace of whoever had stood in Seggerat’s room then moved directly through the servants’ corridors to the library. Whoever it was must have watched Seggerat die, she realised, skin crawling. Watched the struggle for air, the fight for life even as the spell deprived his body of what it needed. If he had suffocated the way she had, he would not have died in that resting pose. The killer had stood, protected from his own spell, watched Seggerat die, and then arranged his body to be found.
And, according to Kallish, the killer had done this before. Arrow had never heard of the other deaths but the Erith did not like to discuss their failures. Her jaw clenched. The Erith had failed to catch a killer, the deaths stopping only when Lady Teresea had been brought in and confirmed that spellwork had indeed been used. Now Teresea was dead and the killer was back. There had been too many deaths. No more, Arrow decided. Not if she could help it.
It was deep into the night when they finished, another cadre appearing to take over watch and surprised to find additional people in the library. The leader of the library cadre left to report to Miach, and Arrow suggested that they return to Seggerat’s rooms.
Kallish gave her a long, hard look and suggested that they rest instead, and resume in the morning. To Arrow’s surprise, Orlis agreed, deep shadows under his eyes, his skin chalky with fatigue.
CHAPTER 14
She walked with Orlis back to the magician’s dormitory.
Orlis’ shoulders were slumped and his face, seen in the fading light, was pinched, shadows under his eyes showing how worn he had become. He was too quiet, barely saying a word in the entire walk. There had been no trace of Gilean at all through the day and no further word. Just more questions. More death. And a near-miss, White Guard fighting each other in the library.
Arrow would have tried to speak to him, form a plan of what to do next, what questions remained unasked, but she had worries of her own. She had been unable to trace Seggerat’s killer. And had nearly fallen victim to the same trap. Kallish had rescued her. Again. The fading bruises across her back twinged, healing disrupted by the events of the day, reminding her of a more direct attack. The Palace was as safe as the Taellaneth, it seemed. There had been no time to ask Kallish, or indeed Miach, for body armour. Even now, with Orlis for company, she was conscious of all the places a potential attacker could hide around them and all the places about her person where a physical weapon could strike. Even with the dormitory’s wards around her, bitter experience told her that she would need to keep candles burning overnight, and bar the door and window, or she would not sleep.
As well as the physical danger, the day had hurt in other ways. She could still hear Eshan’s voice railing against the abomination, other House retainers gathered around him, some silent, some murmuring agreement, staring at her with hard, angry eyes. They were shocked and grieving, and it was nothing new, but it still stung.
She shivered lightly, trying to find something positive for her mind to work on. Orlis had proposed they each bathe before discussing matters further. A hot bath was still a rare luxury and one she could look forward to with simple pleasure.
“I wonder what they want.” Orlis’ voice broke her gloomy thoughts.
She blinked, seeing a small group of Erith ahead of them, dressed in the plain, discreet clothes of high-ranking servants. They also, she saw as they drew closer, wore the Queen’s emblem, the frivolous knot of bright fabric that every Erith would recognise.
“Good day to you.” A small Erith man, his head barely reaching Arrow’s shoulder, stepped forward and made a brisk bow. “We are sent to ready you for the reception tonight.”
“Ready?”
“Reception?”
Orlis and Arrow’s questions came out on top of each other.
“Your presence is requested and required. Both of you. Her Majesty is hosting a reception in honour of Seggerat vo Regersfel.”
“There was no mention of this,” Arrow began, then saw Orlis’ sideways glance. Her brows drew together. “Was there?”
“There was some talk. I assumed it would not include us.” Orlis’ nose wrinkled in distaste. “I hate these things. So formal.”
“Your attendance has been personally requested,” the servant told Orlis, mouth twitching in a poorly hidden smile.
“Curse it, Thoris, you know I hate these things.”
“As does our lady. And yet …” Thoris left the words hanging and
turned to Arrow, making another shallow bow. “We anticipated that you would not have formal clothing for such an event. We are here to assist you prepare.”
Blinking, Arrow looked past him and saw that most of the half dozen servants gathered behind him were carrying large, plain, cloth sacks carefully draped over their arms and shoulders, the last carrying a pair of heavy-looking leather satchels.
She had no time to think before Thoris competently took her under his care, ushering her into the magician’s building, ignoring the cascade of amber wards. He had organised a bath for her, giving her some privacy to bathe. The servants then produced a riot of colour from the plain sacks they had carried. Clothing, as vivid and rich as anything the Taellan wore, and far more opulent than anything Arrow had worn before.
In short order she found herself dressed for a formal evening amongst the Erith in brighter colours than she had ever worn among them. Wide-legged trousers and a narrow-sleeved undertunic made of deep, vivid blue silk that felt like water against her skin covered with a knee-length brocade overtunic of rich red stitched with silver, a colour rarely worn by the Erith. They had even brought different footwear for her, lightweight slippers in the same blue as the trousers. Having dressed her head to toe, the servants performed a final miracle, managing to tame her hair, using a lightly fragranced oil to coax the unmanageable tangle into smooth curls that fell halfway down her back.
There were no mirrors in the room for her to see if she looked as different as she felt, or on the path that Thoris led her on back to the Palace, through another set of double doors guarded by warriors. He left her at the bottom of a wide set of stairs, leading up to a double height open doorway from which came the sound of conversation.
~
She stood at the foot of those stairs, unable to make her feet move for a moment, everything around her unfamiliar, and nothing familiar about her person apart from the mage sword strapped across her back and the kri-syang along her forearm. Not the things for a formal reception, Thoris had pointed out, but she would not leave either behind. The sword was concealed by a minor glamour, drawing sharp-eyed glances from the White Guard at the doors, but she was as entitled to her sword as they were to their weapons and they let her pass.
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