Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  “He was devoted to the Queen.”

  “That may have been true once,” Arrow said, turning away to close the records.

  “He is Regent. This …”

  “Yes. Now do you see why I came alone?”

  “Clever little thing.” A quiet voice, one they both knew, spoke from the shadows. Arrow bit back a curse. She had not set perimeter wards, not wanting to draw more attention. Which meant that, as with Kester, there had been no warning of the newcomer’s arrival. And, like Kester, the constructs had not seen him as a threat.

  Noverian stepped out of the shadows, fully restored to health, pale eyes gleaming with amber power to rival Evellan’s. He was not alone. There were shapes moving with him in the shadows. Warriors. White Guard with red ribbon on their uniforms. Red again. The red of his coronation suit.

  Kester muttered something under his breath. A curse Arrow was not familiar with, anatomically highly unlikely. He drew his blades, amber of his wards flaring.

  “Ward keeper, remember?” Arrow said softly, her own wards kept dim with effort. There was threat in the shadows. Instead of her wards, she gathered a few spells of battle magic, fingers twitching as she drew the necessary runes in the air. Much harder than with chalk, or even spoken words. At least they did not have the null anymore. Although, in the right circumstances, a ward keeper could be nearly as deadly as the null.

  Whilst she frantically tried to remember the supposed skills of a ward keeper and work out how they might harm her, she also took stock of the former Consort. The spare frame, ribs showing and face gaunt, was gone, along with any sign of the surrimok poisoning. She shivered lightly, remembering how drained Orlis was and wondered just how much of his power Noverian had taken. And not just Orlis. Gilean, Evellan and Seivella had helped with his healing. Some of the primary threats to the former Consort, all dealt with in one go. Apart from her. She was fatigued, but not drained. With the Consort’s access to Erith secrets, it was likely that Noverian knew as much about her as Evellan did. Dangerous for her and for Kester as the little she knew of the Consort could be summed up in the ward keepers’ records and her own observations. Still, that gave her an opening to try to draw him out.

  “How long were you poisoning the Queen?” she asked, moving to keep him in sight. The others with him she assessed quickly. No serious power among them. From Kester’s wary stance, they were probably skilled warriors. Genuine White Guard, then, suborned to the Consort’s will.

  “Clever little thing,” he said again, an odd hunger crossing his face. “Would not have been needed if she had just died when she was supposed to.”

  “The Queen’s riding accident. That was two years ago. You have been planning this for two years?” Kester’s voice was clipped, lip curling in distaste.

  “Oh, longer.”

  “Longer,” Arrow said at the same time. The details of the Queen’s accident had not been widely known and she had only heard about it through a casual mention at one of the Taellan’s meetings. A horse from the Royal stables had apparently taken fright at something, as horses did from time to time, and the Queen had nearly, oh so nearly, fallen to her death down a steep ravine. The Taellan had been disturbed, but not suspicious. The Queen’s love of dangerous riding was well known, and some had even suggested that it was only a matter of time before an accident like that had occurred.

  But if the incident had been planned, that took a considerable amount of patience and time. Time to prepare the horse, time to select a route, time to persuade, without seeming to, the Queen to ride along that route, on that horse, at a time when the horse could reliably be spooked. Judging by the satisfaction in Noverian’s face, Arrow thought he had been planning to kill his vetrai for several years before the riding accident, and perhaps even decades. Whatever affection that had once been between Queen and Consort was long gone, at least on his side. Replaced by what she had not quite figured out yet. Resentment, certainly. And the disappearing affection had apparently unearthed Noverian’s long-suppressed ambition.

  “You have never shown any interest in ruling,” Kester objected, the thought so close to Arrow’s own that she glanced aside, finding his gaze intent on the former Consort, his jaw set in anger.

  “She would not let me.” The venom in his voice made Arrow want to take a step back. Whereas Priath was cold in his calculations, always assessing where his best interests lay, Noverian’s ambition burned unchecked.

  “Let you? You were full grown when she ascended the throne. If it was not to your liking, you had time enough to change matters.” The scorn in Kester’s voice was too sharp to just be about Noverian. Kester had lost his own House as part of the negotiations that had seen his only sister wed to Juinis vo Halsfeld. Arrow had often wondered just how the younger brother felt about the loss of his House, and what kind of a sister would insist such a bargain was made.

  “So, when Gilean suggested mercat to help her age well you supported her. Like a good vetral.” Arrow had not realised she was capable of that much sarcastic bite to her voice. The tiny smirk on Noverian’s face told her she had hit the mark. There would be nothing suspicious, nothing at all, in a Consort supporting his Queen in looking after her health. “And then, what, you added more and more to her dose?”

  “Clever.” Noverian’s voice held a bite now, too.

  “She trusted you,” Kester said, voice rough.

  “And your guards,” Arrow said, sorrow making her voice hoarse, “you poisoned them, too. They did not even realise you had gone.”

  “Her guards.” Noverian sneered, amber in his eyes flaring. Far more powerful than anyone had thought he was, Arrow realised. And judging by the fine, subtle wards around him, far more skilled than anyone had realised, either. He may not have the title of ward keeper, but the detail of the spells she could see, gleaming in second sight, demonstrated the skill required.

  “You set up the disguise around yourself in the prison,” she realised finally. The work had not borne Priath’s signature and none of the other conspirators they had met had the skill necessary. And with that realisation, everything else fell into place in a sickening sequence.

  “You killed Teresea.” The words were bitter on her tongue. How could she have missed that. The same magical signature in the dungeons, and at Teresea’s death. And others. “And Seggerat.” Her stomach twisted. “And all those people who died, all those years ago. Killed in their sleep like Seggerat. Did Teresea guess? Is that why she had to die?”

  “Clever little thing.” It was not an admission, but the glee on his face was enough, for Arrow at least.

  “And what about Diannea? Did you try and recruit her?” Even as she spoke the question her stomach turned.

  “Priath’s whore.” The contempt in his voice chilled her again.

  “Priath’s?” Kester’s voice was tight. “But surely Priath was conspiring with you. Why would his lady try to kill you?”

  Noverian’s laugh carried through the still air of the library. Arrow never wanted to hear that sound again. It crawled over her senses, a whisper in the dark when the room was empty.

  “We needed a distraction. Besides, he was growing tired of her. Stupid female thought she had some claim on him.”

  Arrow remembered the severed head on the meeting room floor, the sightless eyes, and felt nothing but pity for the woman, used and disgraced in a conspiracy for power.

  “Head of her House. Taellan in her own right.” Kester was furious, white-lipped, eyes shimmering amber. “How much mercat did Priath need to turn her mind?”

  Noverian laughed again, the sound carrying a trace of chalk scraping on slate. Arrow’s skin prickled. He looked sane. But clearly was not. The glee in his face showed her how much he had enjoyed the deaths, the conspiracy.

  And it would have been so easy for Priath to drug his lover. A toast. A shared glass, Priath careful not to drink. A gift of food. Arrow’s mind turned on a dozen different ways, chilled again as she thought of Priath whispering his desi
res into the lady’s ear, Diannea unable to resist. Arrow knew what it was like to have no control over her actions as the oath-spells had not permitted disobedience. She did not wish it on anyone.

  She discovered she did not want to think of that any more, burn of anger chasing away the cold.

  “Did you also beat yourself up and starve yourself?” A seemingly perfect alibi. The Regent could not have been slipping around the Palace killing people if he was weak and half-dead in the dungeons.

  “Do not be foolish. I allowed myself to be taken. Queris’ little plot was an amusing diversion, and it meant I had a ringside seat for your reunion with Evellan.”

  There. In the midst of the finely crafted wards, something that Arrow could use. A tiny flaw. Her eyes narrowed, silver glinting. If only there was a way she could keep Noverian distracted.

  “So you suggested that they imprison you in the Queen’s dungeon?” Kester prompted, taking a step forward, drawing Noverian’s attention. Arrow wondered what it was about evil men that led them to be so garrulous. Nuallan had been the same. Or perhaps it was just Erith nobility. Most of the Taellan could talk for hours about the most inconsequential matters.

  “Where else were they going to keep me? And Queris liked the irony of it, or so he said. Have you killed him yet?”

  “He is taken care of,” Kester said ambiguously, taking another step towards the lord. “Along with Learvis.” Noverian’s sneer showed his opinion of the sell sword.

  “Sneaky little runt. He was quite fascinated by you,” Noverian told Arrow. “Brought me little things he thought you would enjoy.”

  Arrow’s skin crawled. The book, On the Capture of Mages. Alisemea’s book. And her portrait, beside Seggerat’s bed. She had known that they were put there to draw attention, but the thought that Learvis and Noverian had discussed them had her swallowing hard against nausea.

  “I assume the sell sword is dead?” Noverian asked, voice a light conversational tone.

  “He is taken care of,” Kester repeated, holding his ground. Arrow used the cover of his shoulder to sketch a hasty spell, pouring power into the shapes. An unravelling of sorts.

  The spell bit and for a moment she thought it had succeeded, Noverian becoming utterly still, eyes blank with the intense focus of a magician looking into the second world. Then his lips curved in a smile Arrow hoped never to see again, and his eyes, full of amber power, met hers.

  “You are not skilled enough for such work. Come here.” A sinuous thread of power, a pre-prepared spell triggered by an apparently casual gesture of his hand, wrapped itself around her wards, biting into the spells with the tearing agony of another magician’s power against her own. Pain blinded her for a moment, white and searing, her own wards used against her, knotted into the entrapment spell, dragging her forwards towards Noverian, who was watching her with the same contempt she used to see on Seggerat’s face. The comparison made her shiver lightly.

  But Noverian had forgotten something that Seggerat never would. Arrow had been under the absolute control of the Taellan for many years. She had learned to survive, to keep secrets hidden and to mask her own power despite the oath spells in her blood. The hasty spell she had released fizzed out, its work done, and her wards followed, vanishing like smoke. No Erith would voluntarily drop their wards, the last line of defence for some against an attacker. Unlike most Erith, Arrow knew that wards were not secure. She had taken a bullet despite her wards, saved only by the armoured coat she had been wearing, and in the past several days at the Palace, an attacker in null clothing had sliced through her wards more than once. Being without wards was not terrifying to her. Losing control of her own body was. Her deepest fear brought to pass, had Noverian known it, by anchoring into her wards. Dropping her defences was the less terrifying option.

  Noverian’s hold on her slipped away and she stepped sideways, away from Kester, and released the second spell she had prepared, a slender thread of power that eased into the spaces between his wards. There was no point in directly challenging wards made by a ward keeper, but she could break them or bypass them and so she did.

  “What are you doing? You should not be able to do that!” His confidence wavered. “Stop that.” He was arrogant enough that he thought his command should be enough. Used to power all these years, no matter how bitterly he may have resented the greater power wielded by his vetrai.

  “What are you doing, Arrow?” Kester asked, interested.

  “The problem with being very good at something is you tend to rely on that as your only defence,” Arrow answered obliquely.

  “I am not just very good,” Noverian snapped back, some of his confidence returning, his wards flaring in the first world as he poured more power into them, “I am the best.”

  “I doubt that. Your formal training did not progress beyond the novice stage of the ward keepers’ programme. Your work is good, but I have seen far better in the walls and fabric of the Palace.”

  A lash of amber power streamed out from Noverian, barbed hooks visible even in the first world, seeking something to latch onto, finding nothing, Arrow’s wards still down.

  “How do you fight a ward keeper, little thing?” he sneered, apparently not realising that his attack had failed.

  “You do not. You fight the one hiding behind the wards,” she answered. Then she spoke a final command, the silver strands of her power that had laced through his, in the gaps between his spellwork, tightened at once and the lord found himself held, trapped within his own wards, the spells losing their flexibility, Arrow’s power filling all the tiny gaps and crevices. He uttered a roar of pain and fury, another magician’s power laced with his, eyes widening slightly as he spied something behind Arrow and Kester.

  Arrow did not turn. Only foolish people turned away from as potent a threat as Noverian, even though he was held. Kester glanced over his shoulder instead, moving smoothly, guarding Arrow’s back.

  “Miach.” Noverian’s voice was a low growl, coated with venom, “Kill these traitors.”

  “No.”

  Arrow had never heard so much emotion in one word before. Miach sounded lost, defeated. Heart-sick.

  “I command you. As Regent …”

  “As one who has confessed to poisoning our Queen, you have no standing as Regent,” Miach corrected, still sounding defeated.

  “I did no such thing.”

  “We heard everything,” Miach countered. Arrow risked a glance across. The first guard tipped his head to one side. The shadows of the library had not just concealed Noverian’s men, Arrow saw. Miach’s cadre were there along with Gilean vo Presien, looking as heart-sick as Miach sounded, shoulders slumped.

  “You nearly killed Orlis.” Gilean’s voice was harsh with emotion far darker than Miach’s. The war mage stepped forward, one hand lifted, brilliant power lighting his eyes.

  “No!” Arrow tried to intervene, sensing as soon as she moved that it was too late.

  Gilean’s power, strong and sure, blasted into Noverian, lifting the former Consort from his feet and sending him across the room into the nearest bookshelf, the wooden structure shattering with the force of the impact. Gilean’s power coated Noverian, battle magic unrelenting.

  Arrow screamed, caught between Noverian’s wards and Gilean’s fury, dual scrape of other powers against her unwarded senses sending her to her knees, sight fading to black as she fought the magical backlash.

  “You will kill her, too, you fool!” Kester’s shout hurt her too-sensitive ears.

  “He needs to die.”

  “Then kill him. But only him.”

  “I do not have the right,” Miach said, sadness carrying to Arrow even over the assault of magic. Something about his sadness, Gilean’s determination and Kester’s cool sense allowed her to gather some of her will together and resurrect her wards, the most basic protections, around her. The agony of other magic lessened and she straightened slightly from her huddle on the floor.

  Still blind in the first world,
all she could be sure of was the sound of fighting, steel on steel, a confusion of shouted commands, pleas and fury and the gathering of Noverian’s power as her hold on him lessened. He was far more powerful than Miach or Gilean knew, a gathering of rage in second sight. Before she knew what she was about, the hilt of her sword, a war mage’s spirit sword solid and real in the first world, was in her hand and she was stepping forward, feet following a pattern she did not know, arm moving in one, smooth movement. There was a moment of resistance to her blade and then nothing, her body clenched with a further, tearing pain as Noverian’s wards expired with his life, freeing her magic, followed by the unmistakable sweet scent of Erith death.

  Her sight returned and she had to blink several times, thinking she was imagining things. The library was brightly lit, almost as if by daylight. Underneath the perfect ceiling was chaos. Bookshelves broken, their contents scattered, the one that Noverian had collided with fragmented, and liberally coated with his blood, Noverian himself lying in an unnatural shape in the midst of the wreckage, head cleanly parted from his body, eyes now permanently sightless turned up to the ceiling.

  Noverian’s warriors were dead. Miach and his cadre had given no quarter, simply slaughtered their former comrades. The cadre were grim-faced, jaws set, glitter of too much emotion in their eyes. Kester was supporting Gilean to a nearby stool, the war mage pale and shaking with the aftermath of effort.

  The grey weight of the dead pressed on Arrow and she sank to her knees, shoulders bowed, stomach hollow with loss. Not the sharp stab of grief at the loss of someone she had known, but the simple, profound sense of absence that followed every death.

  Even as she stayed huddled on the floor, a tendril of warm power, the endless, bottomless well that was the Erith heartland, wound itself around her in the gentlest of hugs in the second world. The constriction of her chest eased and she could breathe again, eyes clearing although there was still damp on her face.