Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  “No. I do not answer to you. Not anymore.”

  Eimille stared at Arrow, mouth open, astonishment clear. It seemed an extreme reaction.

  “Exiled, remember?” Arrow said, wondering how many times she would need to remind the Erith of that. She shook her head slightly, turning her shoulder to the lady, seeking out Miach and Iserat. Now that Saul was gone, she needed safe passage back to the human world before someone decided to enforce the Taellan’s edict. Ferdith had given her his word to get her back safely, but she did not think he would be in a position to fulfil it. Not yet.

  “Your face,” Eimille whispered, sounding truly shaken.

  “What about my face?” Arrow turned back to the lady, eyes narrowing.

  “You can’t feel it?” Zachary asked, interested. “You have a new mark. Like Iserat. Only yours is silver.”

  Arrow put her hand to the side of her face in a futile attempt to feel what the heartland had done. She looked across at Iserat and found him staring back at her with equal disbelief.

  “My face is marked?” Iserat asked. Ronath silently handed him a small mirror, produced from somewhere about his person. Iserat stared at his own reflection for a long moment, still disbelieving, even when he poked his own skin, the amber rippling under his fingers but not fading.

  “Here,” Kallish handed Arrow a wide knife with a brightly polished blade. Arrow took her eyes from Iserat reluctantly to check her own face, seeing the silver marking a mirror to Iserat’s.

  She remembered when the heartland had marked her before, high on her cheek, setting her apart as a favourite with the curling leaf symbol that no amount of cosmetics could disguise, and which shone through any glamour, obvious for anyone with sensitivity to magic. A small mark on her cheek was easily disguised. The pattern that ran from the corner of her eye all the way down to her jawbone would not be.

  She sighed. Handed the knife back to Kallish, and wondered if she could fashion a hairstyle to cover her face when she was in the human world. Or if humans might just accept it as a strange tattoo. Facial markings were not common, but not rare either.

  “It is the mark of the heartland’s champion,” Miach told them, breaking into her thoughts. He sounded as shaken as Eimille had. “One has not been seen for many hundreds of years. And never more than one at a time.”

  “A champion. Two.” Eimille snapped her mouth shut and made a shallow curtsey to Iserat and Arrow in turn. Arrow’s jaw dropped in turn and stayed open as she saw the tears in Eimille’s eyes. “I never thought to see another.”

  Arrow’s eyes narrowed. It was not usually a good thing, in her experience, when the Erith were happy about something.

  “There was never need. Until now,” Miach told her

  “But there is no monarch,” Eimille pointed out, still pale. There was no anger in her voice, just sadness that seemed genuine.

  Arrow met Iserat’s eyes across the clearing and saw the knowledge in them. A sense of resignation filled her.

  “Not true. The heartland has chosen. Your king.” Arrow waved a hand in the warrior’s direction. There was probably a far more formal, elaborate ritual to go through, a proper way of announcing a new monarch. She was too tired and heart-sick to care.

  Iserat vo Sovernis looked like he would rather face another pair of surrimok single-handed than accept the title Arrow had given him.

  The gathered crowd took a deep, collective, breath in and then gradually, one by one, the warriors knelt, and the other Erith bowed or curtsied low. All apart from Arrow. And Zachary did not bow to anyone.

  “Bow before your King,” Eimille hissed to Arrow, sadness vanished into far more familiar anger.

  “No.” This time it was Iserat who contradicted her. “The Lady Arrow does not bow before anyone.” Instead, in a deliberate move, Iserat bowed to her. A mark of respect.

  Eimille’s gasp of outrage was reflected around the group.

  “And I am exiled. Remember?” Arrow wondered if she should stop reminding the Erith of that. One of them might take it seriously. An exile standing on Palace grounds, where the punishment for a breach of exile was death.

  “Later,” Iserat told her, voice grave. “For now, we have wounded,” Iserat went on, ignoring Eimille’s scowl. “And dead to gather. Everything else can wait.”

  ~

  The Palace healers tended the wounded and the attendants from the house of the dead gathered the fallen, each one taken up with utmost care and borne away one by one. The underground chambers for the dead would be full that night, Arrow knew, throat tight. The scent of death did not fade much as the attendants did their work.

  As well as the healers and the attendants, mages and warriors arrived to carry out the grisly task of gathering the creatures and burning them.

  At some point, when the seemingly endless day was finally fading into night, the group made their way back to the Palace’s main building. The heat of the day was fading to a temperate night, the scent of death fading with the scent of flowers from the extensive gardens.

  The Palace kitchens had been busy. Rows and rows of tables were set up in the gardens, the tantalising smells of the finest cooking the Erith had to offer curling through Arrow’s senses, her stomach grumbling in anticipation. It had been a long, awful, day. They were alive and everyone she could see was looking like they were not sure that was a good thing. The mages were hollow-faced, bones standing out in sharp relief. The warriors were worn, shoulders slumped and uniforms ragged, still spattered with gore.

  Iserat had stayed almost silent since contradicting Eimille earlier. The six were still gathered around him, along with Miach and Elias and what was left of their cadres, the first guard apparently not willing to give up his post so easily.

  Everyone ate. Drank. Spoke very little. Fuel for their bodies was needed, not enjoyed. The best efforts of the Palace kitchen almost tasteless. No one settled for long, least of all Iserat. There was a constant stream of people approaching him, all wanting to get the measure of the new monarch.

  Arrow watched the stream of Erith speaking with their new monarch and bit her lip to hide a smile. Settled for the moment on a plain bench, resting against Kester, she had time to realise just how tired and worn she was. Even with the food and drink, she ached from head to toe, her skin feeling scorched with the aftermath of the heartland’s power. No one wanted to speak with her, though. She could only imagine how exhausted Iserat felt.

  Freyella had been a known quantity. She had been Queen for a long time. The Erith had been used to her and her ways. And Iserat was, to most, a figure from legend. One of the six who had held against incursion, had laid down his life for the Erith. Except he had not died. And had spent far longer than a hundred years in the surjusi realm.

  The Erith did not adapt well to change. And Iserat was change.

  “He’ll do,” Zachary commented nearby. She turned her head slightly and saw that the Prime was quite serious, eyes on the new King. Sensing her gaze, he turned and smiled, eyes bright. “I don’t think he likes war.”

  “No,” Arrow agreed.

  “Few warriors do,” Kester added.

  “What will you do now?” Zachary asked.

  “Not fight for a while,” Arrow answered immediately. “After that, I do not know. I do not think I will be able to hide this.” She gestured to the markings along the side of her face. “I will not blend in well,” she added, voice catching. All at once she wanted the cottage back. The small building with the sense of age and peace surrounding her. The skylight in the bedroom where she could watch the rain falling without getting wet. The small workshop at the back, perfectly adequate for her needs. Sanctuary close by, with Brother Edward’s undemanding company. She wanted somewhere that was hers, and hers alone.

  There was no going back, though. Even as her heart ached with longing, she knew that. Another place to give up. To move on from.

  “We will go together,” Kester said when she glanced up at him. His eyes were bright with amber.
The ache eased. Quite a lot. They had formed plans for a lengthy holiday. Just the two of them. Time to explore the many things Kester kept hinting at. Her mouth curved in a smile.

  “Even if Juinis gets you taken off the Taellan? Removed from the House?” she asked.

  “Even so.” His arm slid around her waist underneath the cloak she still wore. “I am sure we can find something to do.”

  That had possibilities that Arrow wanted to explore. There had been so little time to explore anything over the past days.

  “We would welcome you,” Zachary told them. A promise as binding as any from a White Guard. And when the Prime of the shifkin nation opened his borders, he offered not just a place to stay, but the full weight of the ‘kin nation to support their safety. In the same way as he would for any of his people.

  And, more than that, working for the shifkin was not boring. There might not be surjusi, but there was an element of risk. Even after the awful day, with the scent of death and blood still tangled in her hair, that appealed to her in ways she was not sure she could articulate, but in ways that she thought Kester would understand. The Prime, too, with the wildness never far away.

  “Thank you,” Arrow answered, echoed by Kester. Her eyes travelled around the others gathered nearby. Kallish. Orlis. Gilean. Undurat. All of them bearing their own marks form the day and their own grief. She would be sorry to not see them again, the longing for a place of her own replaces by a different ache. The anticipation of loss. She had never thought to find friends among the Erith.

  “No rush,” the Prime added, gleam in his eyes, “I think we still owe you a holiday.”

  Arrow laughed, welcome and unexpected after so difficult a day.

  “A holiday, he says.” She tilted her head up to Kester.

  “We should negotiate for more,” he suggested, grinning back at her.

  “I agree.” Iserat’s voice was unexpected. The King had managed to escape the seemingly endless line of people wanting to talk with him and was a few paces away, the rest of the six gathered around him. He smiled, humour chasing the weariness away for a moment.

  They rose, the others bowing, Arrow staying straight and tall.

  “The Erith owe you a great deal,” Iserat told her without any preamble. He would do, Arrow thought, echoing the Prime. Direct and to the point. It was refreshing and welcome.

  “Majesty,” she tilted her head slightly. Agreeing with him.

  “What would you ask of me?”

  Arrow’s mind went blank for a moment. Then a rush of wants and needs crowded into her head too fast for her to decipher. She bit her lip to hold in a torrent of words, drew a breath and straightened, meeting the King’s eyes direct, words flowing from her lips in a steady stream.

  “I am Arrow. I am Mealis vel Liathius. I am the Named daughter of Alisemea vel Regersfel and Gareth of House Liathius. You will reverse my exile and grant me free passage wherever I choose to go. You will grant me and my heirs House Liathius and all its territories. You will grant me and my heirs the land between House Liathius and the human borders. And you will declare that the Erith have no right to demand any service from me and the House beyond the care of the House.”

  It was what she wanted. The rightness of it settled under her breastbone, warming her. She had not known it was what she wanted until she spoke, finding the formal words that the Erith would understand. And now that she had spoken her wants, there was no taking them back. The House that she had never seen. The borderlands that ran between the Erith and the outlawed lands that stretched between Lix and Hallveran. Just enough safety and danger to not be boring. The sense of a debt paid. No more owing. No more claims upon her. A place of her own.

  It seemed to Arrow that the world paused when she finished speaking. Those around her were still with absolute concentration. She could not read the expressions of the six. She could easily read the expressions of the Erith gathered around. Outrage. Eimille’s face was white with red spots burning in her cheeks and she opened her mouth to speak.

  Into the silence came a warm, rich sound.

  Iserat chuckled.

  “Mage. Arrow. Mealis vel Liathius. All of that is granted. I request that House Liathius maintains its expanded borders.”

  The borders that she had just expanded greatly, with the demand of extra land. The long stretch of territory, ran alongside the outlawed lands between Lix and Hallveran. Challenge enough, to manage that border. The safety of the House. The risk of the borders.

  Her eyes lit with silver and she grinned. “I was planning to do so.”

  “Majesty,” Eimille vel Falsen was white and tight-lipped, an expression Arrow knew well. Iserat looked at her, and she made a shallow curtsey. “We do not know if the threat is gone. It may be unwise to release her from service.” Arrow wondered if anyone else had spotted the lady’s slight stumble. Her. Not it. It was a huge concession from Eimille, even if the word had stuck for a moment.

  She suspected no one else had noticed, too caught up in the far more interesting spectacle of the eldest of the Taellan making an open challenge to one of the new King’s first decisions. And Eimille had a point. They had not got to the bottom of the conspiracy. Saul was gone, but perhaps not forever.

  Others could deal with that, Arrow knew. She was not required. Not now. Her feet twitched, wanting to move. Away from here, to House Liathius. She had only seen paintings. Forests and valleys and rivers and rolling grassland. And a narrow strip of coastline. A large territory that she could take her time to explore. Away from the Court, away from the politics and the secrets and the bargaining and the demands and the wants of others.

  The King had granted her wishes. He could take it back, though.

  “Lady Eimille, your service and advice are valued,” Iserat answered, expression serious, “but my decision stands. The Lady Arrow shall have all she asked for. It does not stop us requesting her aid in future. But she should be free to answer as she pleases.”

  Arrow’s heart skipped, body light with relief. Freedom. The biggest wish she had carried for such a long time. Freedom. Hers.

  Eimille’s jaw was clenched, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes burning. And she could do nothing. The Taellan might advise, but they did not overrule or contradict the monarch.

  A soft sound nearby made them both look. Kallish nuin Falsen had taken a step forward.

  “It occurs to me, mage, that you will be in need of some warriors to patrol that border.” Kallish was senior in the White Guard. And she had just stood in the defence of the heartland. Arrow thought she could probably get whatever duty she chose to request.

  “The House territory is almost empty. Serran has been absent so long most of the retainers are gone,” Gilean added, eyes gleaming.

  “So, you will be wanting visitors,” Orlis chimed in.

  Arrow’s eyes were hot, her throat tight. She opened her mouth to try and form some words. To try and tell them what it would mean to have them with her. Freedom. A place of her own. Friends. The seemingly never-ending list of wants she had been gathering was suddenly answered, and overflowing.

  “Kester will stay with me,” Juinis chimed in before she could speak. Too publicly. And unwise. Arrow thought he most likely regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He had misjudged his younger brother-by-vestrait quite badly.

  “House Liathius will welcome new residents,” Arrow said in return, voice cool. “Those who choose, freely, to join.”

  “How do I apply?” Kester asked at once. He was not looking at Juinis.

  Arrow held out her hand. He took it, and she nodded. “Agreed.”

  He laced his fingers through hers, eyes bright, lips curving into a smile. Her insides curled. He looked happy.

  Juinis’ expression was unreadable for a moment, then his mouth curved slightly and he nodded, once. Recognition. Resignation. Arrow had a suspicion that Juinis would be staying in touch with Kester, whether Kester liked it or not.

  “Is there anything else?”
Iserat asked, eyes dancing with laughter.

  Arrow lifted her brow and turned to Kester, then Kallish.

  “We may have other requests,” Kallish informed the new King, voice full of amusement. “We will let you know.”

  Iserat laughed again.

  “Very well. It is done.” He smiled, eyes bright, and Arrow tensed immediately. Iserat had been named as King for less than half a day. He had a lifetime of Erith politics behind him, though, and she had seen a similar look on the Prime’s face more than once. “House Liathius will have a place on the Taellan.” Arrow wanted to groan. All those politics. “Although you may send an alternate in your place.”

  “An alternate?” Her brow lifted. She would not have to endure that table herself. She glanced aside, saw Kester patient and willing, and then Orlis. “Anyone I choose?” she asked, not bothering to hide her smile. Orlis’ face paled.

  “Anyone. Not the same one each time, either,” Iserat answered, voice still full of laughter.

  “Thank you,” she said, turning back to Iserat, trying to put all the sincerity she could into those two words.

  “It is the least that I can do. And I look forward to you further requests.” His mouth kicked up in another smile. Arrow could almost see a list building in Kallish’s mind.

  “King, eh?” Onalla said, mouth curving into a predatory smile. “Does that mean we finally get the keys to the brandy cellar?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Serran died the night the battle was won. He looked at peace when Arrow saw him the next morning, his face unlined and relaxed. She found herself torn, not sure of her own feelings. Not only sorrow, but a conflicting mix of relief and regret. Serran had already died, when the surjusi stone was removed. There had been no chance of getting to know him as his own person, rather than from the fragments and stories others told and her own early impressions of Nassaran, a role that Serran had played.

  His funeral rites were held two days later, along with all the other fallen, and Duraner, finally put to rest. It seemed to Arrow that the entire Erith population had come to the Palace for the rites, from the highest Head of House to the lowest farmhand. Rows and rows of solemn-faced Erith, all wearing a bit of purple, very few able to fit into the Palace graveyard for the rites themselves, but all there anyway. The Erith honoured their dead.