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Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

Page 81

by Vanessa Nelson


  A small hand gesture from Noverian, and Miach’s cadre spread themselves about the room. No longer the Queen’s guard, Arrow realised for the first time. Until the Regent gave other orders, or the new monarch did, Miach was the first guard for the Palace, his assignment to protect whoever was the reigning monarch, so Noverian was now his responsibility as much as the Queen had been.

  Kallish’s touch on her arm nearly made her jump. The warrior gestured back towards the wall and, grateful to be out of the centre of attention, Arrow went with the third to stand in a servants’ alcove, feeling oddly displaced and oddly at home at the same time. Waiting in a servant’s place for the Taellan to require her attention was so familiar that she automatically adjusted her posture to fit, straightening up, folding her hands behind her back, her body remembering how to be still and wait with no need of prompting from her mind.

  The room doors were still open, but no one moved to close them, which was just as well as moments later the pounding of running feet drew closer and closer and two full cadre of White Guard ran into the room, weapons ready.

  Miach’s cadre, who had surely been expecting the others, sprang forward to form a guard behind Noverian. Most of the Taellan sprang to their feet, cries of surprise and outrage, demands for answers rising with demands for answers from the newly arrived White Guard.

  And in the midst of the confusion, too many White Guard milling around the room, the Taellan not keeping still, Arrow, quiet and still in her position at the side of the room, saw the flicker of bared steel where it should not be.

  Without thinking, she rushed forward, perhaps making a sound of alarm, Kallish and Undurat on either side, cries of alarm filling the room, turning to shrieks as fully half of the newly arrived warriors peeled back their uniforms to reveal brilliant scarlet under-tunics and attacked the other warriors with no warning.

  The room was full of the sounds of battle, weapons clashing, the cut-off cries of pain from warriors as strikes hit home, screams from the Taellan as the attacking warriors bore down on them, more than one of the lords and ladies of the Erith taking refuge under the table.

  The knife that Arrow had seen had vanished in the confusion.

  Miach’s cadre had dragged Noverian bodily back from the table and were surrounding him in an impenetrable wall, battle wards raised, not making a move to help the other warriors or the Taellan, their duty clear.

  “Do something,” Kallish hissed in Arrow’s ear. Her third were around Arrow, weapons up, trying to hold their position. Protecting a war mage. Giving her room and space to work.

  Arrow shook herself out of her shock, trying to make out the pattern of the battle, hands automatically drawing runes for mage fire. She forced herself to stop. Mage fire was lethal, and she could not be sure of hitting the attackers. Something less than lethal.

  “Be ready,” she told Kallish who nodded grimly, and signalled to her third.

  Gathering all her power together, Arrow knelt and put one hand on the floor. No blood required for this, she spoke a quick holding spell.

  “Jump!” she told Kallish. To her surprise, the third obeyed, leaping off the ground. She poured her power into the hold spell, sending it out across the room, clutching at all the feet and limbs on the floor. By the time the third landed on the ground again, the spell had taken hold, freezing everyone else in place.

  “It will not last for long,” she warned the third. They wasted no time, finding restraints from somewhere and gathering up as many of the red-fronted attackers as they could.

  The hold spell had only frozen people in place, not stopped their mouths, and as the five warriors moved around the room, the air was full of curses and fury from both sides, Miach’s voice penetrating the air demanding release, along with fury from the Taellan who had ducked under the table, now unable to move at all, and Gret demanding Arrow’s head at once.

  Arrow ignored them all, eyes scanning the room for that knife she had seen. Slender and lethal, it had not been wielded by White Guard. One of the Taellan, apart from Kester, standing calmly with both blades still ready, was armed. She moved forward, going towards the table, power lessened but still strong, even as the hold spell began to wear off. A few feet twitched. Noverian, surrounded by warriors, had not received as full dose of the spell as others, and worked his way out from his protection, much to Miach’s fury, the cadre leader grasping the Consort’s sleeve. Noverian shook him off, stepped out of the circle of the warriors’ protection, eyes wide as he took in the carnage of the room, the red-fronted warriors who had attacked. And among the Taellan a richly-clothed noble lunged forward, flicker of steel visible.

  Arrow cried a warning, sending a shock of power across the room. Noverian gasped, stumbled back. The soft-clothed body hit the ground under Arrow’s power, knife clattering to the floor, even as Miach shook off the hold spell, grabbed Noverian back and moved, blade sure and swift, and parted head from body of the attacker.

  Arrow was almost on them when a familiar head, separated from its body, rolled almost to her feet. Diannea vel Sovernis.

  Noverian stumbled again and Arrow cursed, looking for the knife. Poison. It had to be.

  “What poison?” Miach demanded, furious, face white, harsh lines forming around his mouth and eyes.

  Kallish knelt by the knife on the floor.

  “Smells like surrimok.”

  “Where is Orlis?” Miach demanded.

  “A moment.” Arrow pulled a communicator disk from her pocket, glad she had thought to bring one, only to hear more footsteps at the door. Gilean and Orlis, surrounded by Xeveran and his third, arrived, whatever argument they had been having vanishing as they saw the room.

  Arrow stepped out of the way, back against the wall as Miach and Kallish’s cadres, along with the loyal warriors, tied up the crimson-fronted traitors, tended to various wounds, coaxed the shaking Taellan from underneath the table, settled some of the more frightened of the Taellan at the table, all the while keeping an eye on Orlis who was using every scrap of power he had to keep Noverian alive, Gilean assisting, their differences put aside.

  Eventually the room was quieter and calm, a pair of dark-robed magicians arriving as the hush fell, expressions stern at first, changing swiftly to shock and then concern as they saw the Consort lying on the floor, two mages pouring power into him.

  “What has happened?” the smaller magician asked. “The room’s wards are down.” Palace ward keepers, Arrow realised, from the subtle design on their robes. She tried not to move, to avoid drawing any attention.

  “Too much to tell just now.” Whatever rest and energy Miach had recouped was long gone. The first guard looked exhausted, the rest of his third gathered close around him. One monarch lost on his watch, Arrow realised, and he thought he might lose another within a day. Not a happy thought for someone who had served the Erith monarchy for his whole life.

  The room was crowded already, even more so as Evellan and Seivella arrived moments after the ward keepers. Unlike the ward keepers, they assessed the room with sharp, intent gazes before turning to Noverian and going forward side by side, offering their help. Even injured, they were both skilled magicians, and Orlis accepted their aid with a grateful glance up and tip of his head.

  The White Guard separated out a pair of the disloyal warriors to keep in the room, sending the remainder off in charge of Gea’s cadre. Diannea vel Sovernis’ sightless eyes were still staring at the domed ceiling, expression caught in horror as she had witnessed her own death in Miach’s blade coming towards her.

  Arrow could not help wonder what had prompted the lady’s defection, to attempt to kill the Consort. The House might be known for its hot-headed young, but the elders were normally more even tempered. And she had risked her entire House, not just her own life, on this terrible gamble.

  “Will you examine her?” Kallish asked quietly, coming to stand beside Arrow. “We need to know if there are any clues.”

  Arrow’s stomach twisted at the thought of
going near the headless body, the thick spray of blood making a large pool that everyone was trying to avoid, sweet scent of death choking her lungs.

  “Here?”

  “We cannot wait.” Kallish was grim, eyes flicking to Noverian. Still breathing, but his face was pale and dewed with sweat, and the magicians around him were fading. There might soon be another death. And then there would be more chaos, allowing the conspirators to get away or hide. The lady Sovernis had not been working alone. Surrimok poison was rare, and not from her lands.

  “Yes.” Arrow agreed, hunted through her pockets and found her gloves, walking with Kallish until she could kneel beside the body, avoiding the blood pool and avoiding looking too closely at the severed neck.

  Diannea vel Sovernis had been a middle-height Erith lady, dressed richly as befit her station and her House, favouring the looser style of draped clothing of her region rather than the corsets and full skirts of Eimille vel Falsen, House Falsen’s lands in a cooler climate.

  Arrow began with the lady’s arms, finding a concealed sheath for the knife along one arm, and an odd marking just above her wrist on the other arm. Kallish examined the mark but declared it unfamiliar, calling Undurat and Xeveran over to look as well.

  As more gathered around the body, the Taellan began to stir, angry murmurs from a few, with phrases such as “lack of dignity” and “respect for the dead” clear to Arrow. It was only a matter of time before Gret vo Regresan, who had not been one of those under the table, surged to his feet and demanded her removal.

  Near her, Kallish stiffened and turned her head towards the Taellan, eyes narrowing. Arrow could not see her full expression, but the Taellan stilled, some of their faces paling a fraction.

  “This woman does not deserve our respect,” Kallish told them, words clipped, “having tried to kill the Consort.”

  The Taellan subsided into silence again, a few mutinous expressions that would have looked quite appropriate on youngsters. Standing among them, Kester bit his lip to hide a smile, eyes glinting before Arrow ducked her head back to her work.

  She moved to the lady’s torso, pausing at once with a small, surprised noise.

  “She is wearing body armour.”

  “Indeed?” Kallish was still grim.

  “The House is known for its weapons,” Xeveran commented, crouched on the other side of the body. “Can you undo her tunic so we can see the make?”

  It was a sensible idea, even if Arrow’s being revolted at the thought of stripping the lady in such a public setting. She checked for the clothes fastening and shook her head.

  “It fastens at the back. We will need to move her.”

  “Anything else you can learn?” Xeveran accepted her assessment.

  Arrow moved around the body, finding a slender knife tucked into the lady’s boot, and a hard weight in a pouch at the lady’s waist which turned out to be a clouded glass jar that she opened carefully, taking one small sniff before closing it rapidly.

  “Surrimok poison,” Kallish said, nose wrinkling. Arrow handed the jar to Kallish, not wanting to hold it anymore.

  Preliminary search done, Arrow opened her second sight, not expecting to find anything. Any magic the lady had carried should have gone with her death. And yet the body glowed faintly with spellwork.

  “Someone had woven a spell across the lady,” she told Kallish, tracing the lines of the spell in second sight.

  “To what purpose?”

  “Unclear. I do not recognise the spell.”

  “The mage?”

  “I do not know.” Arrow frowned. There was something faintly familiar about the spellwork, but she could not be certain. Too many impressions from the last few days crowded her head. “Maybe someone who was in the library. But not the one who used mage fire in the library.”

  “Can you trace them?”

  “Him,” Arrow said definitely, enhancing her sight with a quick spell, the lines clear before her eyes. “Someone I have met in the Palace. Not very familiar, though.”

  “So none of the Taellan. Not Miach’s cadre. Not mine. Elias? His cadre?”

  Arrow could not see Kallish’s face from the second world, could only judge how tense and concerned the warrior was by the brittle quality to her voice. Distantly she heard some gasps from the Taellan and an indrawn breath she thought she recognised as Gret vo Regresan about to launch into a tirade.

  “Quiet.” The one word was flat, full of command. Kester.

  “Not Elias or his cadre,” Arrow confirmed.

  “Good.”

  “One of the courtiers, then,” Kester suggested, tone reflective.

  “Most likely.”

  “What do you need to find him?” Miach’s voice, harsh and flat.

  Arrow tipped her head, considering the information in the spellwork. She now had different examples of the magician’s work.

  “Assuming he has made his own ward spells. I would need to be in the same room as him.”

  “Everyone makes their own ward spells,” Miach said.

  “Not necessarily,” Arrow countered, looking again at the spells overlaying Diannea vel Sovernis. “I think this may be a form of warding.”

  “Not there to influence the lady?”

  “No, svegraen.” Arrow came back into the first world and looked up to meet Miach’s eyes. “As far as I can tell she acted in her own mind.”

  Miach was tired and worn enough that he could not hide his reaction to that, a drain of colour from his face, mouth pinching in pain.

  “But not alone,” Kallish reminded them, rising, along with her warriors, to face Miach.

  The pain in the senior warrior’s face lessened as he thought for a moment.

  Arrow rose to her feet as well, removing her gloves and tucking them away while she thought. Her eyes turned to the two red-fronted warriors tied up and under guard and she took a step towards them before she was really sure what she was doing. The impulse seemed a good one, so she kept going.

  “May I see his wrists, svegraen?” she asked the nearest warrior on guard. He lifted a brow, the only sign of surprise, but obliged, kneeling by the prisoner and pulling his sleeves back from his wrists. The same mark that Diannea vel Sovernis had on her wrist was on the inside of the prisoner’s wrist, the prisoner himself struggling to break free from his ties as it was discovered.

  “That would have to hurt,” Kallish observed, once more at Arrow’s shoulder.

  “A test of loyalty, I imagine.” Arrow’s eyes lingered on the mark exposed to the light and flinched internally, imagining the pain of such a wound. Erith did not scar easily, and despite many efforts by younger Erith, could not tattoo their skin, so anything that could cause so small and so deep a mark must have been excruciatingly painful, the wound deliberately kept from healing until the mark had taken.

  “A brand.” Miach’s voice had lifted. Something concrete to hunt for.

  “We cannot ask the entire Palace to strip,” Kallish said, although it sounded as if she were seriously considering making the demand.

  “No.” Miach sounded equally intrigued by the idea. “But we can offer a blessing.”

  “Sneaky.” Kallish approved, dark eyes reflecting satisfaction as she turned to the senior. “Both wrists, though.”

  “A blessing?” Arrow asked.

  “A gift from the Consort, a remembrance of his vetrai,” Miach explained, then continued at Arrow’s evident confusion, “usually a piece of ribbon tied around a wrist, gifted at a funeral rite.”

  “Ah.” Arrow blinked, processing that idea. It had merit. She had never been to a funeral rite, so had no idea how common such a thing might be or whether the Erith would find it suspicious that the Consort suddenly wished to revive an old custom. But there was one possible flaw. “Could the mark be concealed with cosmetics?”

  “Possibly.” The hope died in Miach’s face.

  “We can find the mage who put the spell on the lady Sovernis,” Arrow reminded him, wanting to offer some comfort
. The confident, calm warrior who had met her in the mirror relay room not that many days before was entirely gone, and she did not like the change.

  “He will live.”

  Orlis’ voice, quiet and hoarse, cut the tension in the room. Everyone, even the prisoners, sagged in relief, all eyes turning to Noverian. The Consort was lying on his side, evidence of his sickness and the poison all around him, pungent odour almost overriding the scent of death. His too-thin shoulders and rib cage rose and fell with deep breathing, but it was steady and sure.

  “Back to the annex,” Kallish suggested. “Xeveran, we need a litter for the Consort.”

  Xeveran had his third organised in moments, tearing down an old and probably priceless tapestry from the walls in the entrance and, using White Guard spears, extended to their furthest reach, quickly made it into a makeshift litter.

  Watching the quiet, efficient progress, Arrow’s eyes drifted to the ward keepers, standing in stunned silence inside the doors. They bore all the appearance of not wanting to be there at all, to witness such things, at the same time as taking everything in, eyes darting about the room.

  Another impulse had her moving across the room to them. It could take her days to search the Palace for the magician. The ward keepers lived here, and had to be familiar with its residents. Especially the ones who could craft such fine magic.

  “Sirs.”

  Two pairs of amber-flecked eyes turned to her.

  “There is an additional ward spell on the lady Sovernis. Can you tell its maker?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Possibly.”

  Arrow waited while they exchanged glances, each swallowing, hard, perhaps realising just how deep a conspiracy they were on the edges of. The taller, more junior, nodded once and focused his gaze on the lady’s body, avoiding her detached head.

  “Priath,” he said definitely after a moment. “Unquestionably. He has grown far more accomplished than I had realised.”

 

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