Concealed: The Taellaneth - Book 1 Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  Night was gathering as Arrow made her way out of the main building, risking a reprimand by taking the main entrance. The twin moons overhead were as frosty as the air, the slivers narrow, the moons themselves, according to Erith tradition, locked in an eternal struggle for power.

  She paused at the foot of the shallow steps, the sculpture catching her attention, as it was designed to. Translucent stone that shimmered in daylight, now glowing a ghostly white lit by small sparks of magic placed here and there on the grass around it. Six figures. Five that made up one third of a White Guard cadre. Some kneeling, others standing, weapons ready, in a loose circle around a war mage at their centre, his hands raised in spell work. Each face determined, staring resolute at an unseen enemy. The master craftsmen who had made the sculpture had ensured that there was at least one face in full view whichever angle the sculpture was viewed from. Arrow’s view showed her a kneeling archer, bow drawn, arrow ready to let fly, protecting the war mage’s back, the mage’s stone cloak seeming to ripple in an unseen breeze. Erith runes, carved from the same stone, circled the sculpture in the grass, the title of the piece repeated over and over. Fallen not Forgotten.

  A reminder, if one were needed, that the freedom and prosperity of the Erith came at a high price. Commissioned by the Queen, she had, according to rumour, stared down the entire Taellan when they objected to having such a sacred memory on display for any casual visitor to see. It was a cornerstone of the Taellaneth, she had told them, that they should not forget.

  And a reminder for Arrow, too, that she should not forget the wonder in the world. Every time she stood before the statue she was reminded of the first time she had seen it, her much smaller hand folded in the warm, callused hand of Nassaran, the elderly Erith who had cared for her until she had been old enough to begin studying at the Academy.

  Her first memory of this statue was of being warm and safe, staring slack-jawed at the huge stone men above her, while Nassaran’s soft voice told her the tale of the incursion and its end, his words low and full of emotion she had had no name for then, too young to understand. She just knew she was protected, and cared for, and that the man who held her hand would defend her, as the stone men would defend all the other Erith who could not look after themselves.

  Checking she was unobserved, Arrow made a brief half-bow to the long-dead third and mage. The last six, she now knew, who had sealed the last incursion. They had faced the Erith’s greatest fears knowing they were the last line of defence, giving their lives in that defence. They were deserving of respect.

  The stone eyes of the archer did not blink, still focused on a long-dead, unseen enemy, and she continued on her way, careful to skirt around the scribe’s quadrangle. Eshan had taken a quicker route out of the main building to get back to his domain, the sound of his wrath a harsh counterpoint to an otherwise serene evening. More than one scribe would be leaving his service, she guessed.

  The scribe’s anger made little difference to the Taellaneth, the grounds a giant garden, meticulously planned. The Erith had moved fully mature trees and giant rocks from the heartland to form the garden with curving pathways, springing grass lawns, and an array of Erith plants that scented the air year-round.

  As daylight faded, glimmerlights, tiny sparks of Erith magic, appeared here and there among the plants. Just enough light to allow the Erith to see clear as day, barely enough for Arrow to navigate by when it was fully dark.

  By the time she reached her residence, a converted store room tucked out of sight behind a high hedge with sweet-scented climbing plants tangled through, her fingers had reduced in size to be usable again, sting dulled to faint irritation.

  Her walk had given her time to plan what she needed and, much as she wanted to lie down on her mattress and sleep until morning, she could not. The ‘kin lived closer to the human world than the Erith, so she changed her dark, Erith clothing, for dark, human-made clothing, the effort telling her how much she needed to rest. She could not remember the last full night’s sleep she had been permitted. And there was no rest in sight. Get what you need, Eshan had said. She really needed sleep, knew that was not available, so would have to eat instead. Dressed in human clothing she would not be permitted into the Taellaneth kitchens, but she was going out into the human world where there were fast food venues that would not care what she wore. And which sold coffee.

  She froze a moment, dull sparks of silver in her eyes flaring. Coffee. Hamburgers. Chocolate. Delicious, and forbidden among the Erith. A shiver ran through her. It had been many months since the Erith had sent her out of the Taellaneth. So long that she had wondered if they had forgotten her or, worse, had decided to keep her confined until her oaths expired. The hated magic that had bound her to the Taellan’s will for over half her life. Oaths bound with an expiration date that was almost here.

  Another shiver. Perhaps her last task for the Erith, and they were sending her to their old enemies. Maybe they thought that the ‘kin would ensure that Arrow did not reach the end of her oaths. It would be a tidy end, for the Erith, to her troublesome existence.

  Arwmverishan.

  The whispered word was so real that she turned and looked for the speaker, before realising that the voice was just a memory that she was too tired to suppress. Another memory rose, a cacophony of young Erith voices, shrieking the word over and over. That was from earlier that day, the new intake of students at the Academy horrified and fascinated by the half-breed assigned to show them how to draw basic runes. They had not learned much.

  Arwmverishan.

  Abomination.

  The first word she had learned. Trying to repeat it, shape the unfamiliar letters, and managing only a sound that was like Arrow. A human word, meaningless to the Erith, but they had to call her something.

  Muscles locked against another tremor, her jaw clenched, Arrow came out of memory to realise she had been standing still for several moments, and the oath spells in her blood were restless. She had been given orders.

  Taking her knee-length, human-made, leather coat from its hook she quickly checked its wards were intact, the faint sheen of silver at the very edges of her sight reassuring her, then pulled her battered messenger bag, also of human make, over her shoulder, settling it against her hip, and glanced around, a final cursory check. She had restocked her bag after her last journey from the Taellaneth into human lands. As ready as she could be, she left, renewing the wards, using most of the tiny spark of power she had remaining.

  ~

  Stepping out of her residence into the night another presence brushed against her wards. The wards pulled more power, recognising a possible threat. This one had hurt her before.

  “You really are an abomination.” The cultured voice emerged from nearby shadow. A tall, slender Erith lord stepped onto the bare ground before her front door.

  “Lord vo Regresan.” Years of practice kept her voice even and calm, face expressionless, her apprehension and distaste hidden. The young lord, from any other background, would be recognised for the petty bully he was. Youngest offspring of one of the Taellan, and presumed heir to his House, he was fond of using that position to get his own way. Beautiful, even by Erith standards, the lord seemed to gather the available light to him, golden skin glowing, impact of his presence distilled by the sneer across his sculpted face.

  “You cannot wear that … outfit.”

  “It is to fulfil a task for the Taellan.” The Taellan did not like human-made items within the Taellaneth grounds. They were, though, highly pragmatic when it came to getting their will carried out. Something the young lord had yet to learn.

  “It is an outrage. My father shall hear of your conduct.”

  Arrow thought that Gesser’s father, Gret vo Regresan, likely had far bigger concerns. The older lord was also normally highly adept at picking his fights.

  “Did you want something?”

  “The tenth cycle has demonstration classes over the next few days. I requi
re you to attend.” Arrow could not recall the last time that Gesser had actually conducted the class himself. He was proud of his title as Assistant Teaching Master at the Academy and wore his Academy robes with flair. The pride and flair had yet to extend to him actually carrying out his duties. Every teacher required Arrow’s assistance from time to time, knowing she could not refuse. Gesser managed to require her assistance more than all the others together.

  The tenth cycle was a new class for him. A moment’s thought and she realised that they would have reached the point of learning to keep their focus through distraction, including pain. Demonstration was required by a senior mage, or senior student, to prove that it was possible to hold focus. It was the least welcome demonstration duty across all Academy classes. Arrow had been the demonstrator for every class since she had passed her own tenth cycle, standing firm under hails of sticks, stones, magic, and in one case, knives, being thrown at her. The student throwing knives had received a raised eyebrow from the Teaching Master supervising the class, nothing more.

  “I am unable to assist.”

  “You must. There is no one else.” There was a hint of something in his voice.

  Arrow lifted a brow. “My lord, the Taellan’s command takes priority over classes. The Preceptor himself has decreed it.”

  “But …” His jaw snapped shut, eyes glinting with amber power. He was furious enough, and frightened enough, to try something remarkably stupid, she realised. He had struggled with that class when they had taken it together and had retaken it more than once. She did not need to look at his hands to know that he was drawing runes in the air. Not as powerful as those set with chalk, but still potent enough to harm. She took a step forward, calling up the tiny amount of power she had left, the pull inside telling her she was at the end of her reserves. The trickle of power brightened her eyes, sparks of silver growing.

  “I have my commands, my lord.”

  Exhausted or not, abomination or not, she was more powerful than he was. He had damaged her extensively when she had been a student, her power constrained. Now there was nothing he could do.

  The sense of power faded as he met her eyes, his face a mask, shoulders set, and fists clenched, faint amber points in his eyes flickering. Arrow held her ground.

  Without another word he spun on his heel and left. Watching his back, she allowed herself one sigh. The fingers on her right hand clenched, phantom ache from a previous occasion when the young lord had also not got his way. The bones had set well enough that she had use of her fingers, though they did not lie straight.

  Forced with adulthood into more mature ways of seeking revenge, she would not receive more broken bones. Rather, she would find herself assigned every one of his demonstrations on her return. More than likely her residence wards would be ripped open, the few possessions she had scattered to the elements. He, along with a few others, would not forgive her for succeeding where they had failed. She, with her impure Erith heritage, had graduated from the Academy, something fewer than one in a hundred students achieved.

  Beginning the walk towards the Taellaneth gates she shrugged aside the possibility of future punishment for another day. She had had to learn to pick her battles, much like Gret vo Regresan. Worrying about Gesser’s likely reaction was pointless as there was nothing she could do to stop him. Besides, he had a limited imagination, usually content to sit gleefully in the corner while she took his classes.

  Her mood lifted with the realisation that, in her absence, and being the most junior member of the teaching staff, he would be forced to be his own demonstrator. The students were unlikely to use knives. Still, the class was uncomfortable for the demonstrator and Gesser would be required, for once, to earn his robes.

  Steps a little lighter, she continued on her way.

  ~

  The Taellaneth wall loomed out of the night. A vast structure constructed of wood and magic, the wall ran around the entire complex, standing higher than the top of the dome of the Receiving Hall, broken only by two sets of gates. One set led to the Erith heartland and was forever barred to Arrow. The other gates led to the closest border with the human lands and these she was permitted to use from time to time.

  The gates she approached were bracketed with a pair of watchtowers that rose even higher than the walls, apparently dark and deserted. In truth they were staffed by White Guard, day and night, warriors stationed in the towers and on the ground. Between the watchtowers, one of the massive wooden gates was slightly ajar, the sound of raised voices greeting her.

  “… cannot bring that thing in here,” the sentry just outside the gate was saying to someone unseen. A mid-ranked White Guard, from the braids on his sleeves, just visible in the light available. The sentry’s companion on watch was standing a little distance away, taking no part in whatever argument was going on.

  “I have orders.” The voice, rough from past injury or disease, was faintly familiar. Arrow stepped through the gate.

  “Good evening to you, svegraen,” she addressed the warrior.

  “There you are.” The sentry barely looked at her, voice clipped. She could not make out his expression in the dark, but he would have seen her human clothing. “You are late.”

  “I am sorry,” she said reflexively.

  “Come on, then.” The rough voice was impatient.

  Arrow stepped around the sentry, nose wrinkling as she caught the very human smell of exhaust fumes. Coming out of the Taellaneth, the scent as always reminded her of her first exit. She had been exiled after she had accidentally started a fire that consumed most of one of the Academy’s classrooms, shoved outside the gates and onto the first of a series of vehicles that would take her to Hallveran.

  Today there were no hands grabbing her. The roughened voice belonged to the Erith’s chief mechanic, whose charges were housed in a warehouse-sized building a few miles from the Taellaneth gates, a warehouse that the mechanic regarded as his own personal kingdom and the vehicles under his care more precious than any offspring. Behind him, picked out in the limited star and moon light, was a vehicle of some description. Arrow’s brows rose. The Erith did not normally permit any technology this close to the Taellaneth.

  “Here,” the sentry handed her a large leather pouch, “the Chief Scribe left this. Said directions are inside.”

  “My thanks.” She took the pouch, and turned to the mechanic, who was shifting from foot to foot, scowling. “Good evening.”

  “Well,” he grunted, and turned to the vehicle, rattling off a description of the vehicle’s make, model and mileage that Arrow did not understand. She could drive, thanks to the mechanic’s impatient tuition, but had no comprehension of how the thing worked. Following him around the vehicle, she tried to memorise his words in case she would need them later as he pointed out various features that seemed important to him, nodding as he glared back at her from time to time.

  “Fuel tank is full. Wards renewed last week.” The mechanic held out the keys to her, knuckles gleaming white in the gloom. “Return her in one piece.”

  Interesting. He had decided the vehicle was female. She was tempted to ask him if the vehicle had a name, but simply took the keys, making a mental note to stop as soon as she could and renew the vehicle’s wards herself. The mechanics were as weak in magic as they were strong in their love for human technology.

  She gave the mechanic appropriate thanks and was about to offer to take him back to the warehouse when she saw that there was another vehicle, further away from the gates, waiting to do just that.

  Under the watchful eye of the White Guard sentries and the disapproving glare of the mechanic she managed to get into the driver’s seat, start the vehicle and pull away from the Taellaneth without embarrassing herself. It was only while she was driving along the one available road, heading towards the faint lights of the nearest human city, Lix, that she realised she had forgotten to turn on the headlights.

  She muttered a curse in the private space of the car’s interior,
found the appropriate switch, lighting the road in front of her, fingers tightening on the wheel for a moment. Such a basic thing to forget. Sent by the Taellan to the shifkin, the weight of the elder’s command pressing her into the seat, there was no option to fail in her task or return without answers. The oaths would not let her. She could not afford mistakes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Go to Farraway Township and offer aid to the shifkin.

  The single line of directions, written in the Chief Scribe’s hand with none of his usual precision, was all the visible authority she had. As well as the haste of the note, the packet from the Chief Scribe had been far less than the comprehensive information she normally received when sent outside the Taellaneth, containing little more than that one line note and funds for her journey. The lack might be due to speed. Perhaps.

  But she was often sent on tasks for the Taellan at short notice, sometimes returning from one errand to find another waiting for her, and Eshan had never provided anything less than three fingers’ width of paper for her to review, and for much simpler tasks than she faced just now. On one memorable occasion he had provided her with a hand’s width of paper simply to purchase a new telephone for the Erith’s administration complex, tucked in the shadows of the mechanic’s warehouse.

  This last year alone she had been given a dozen tasks outside the Taellaneth grounds, each coming with a heavy packet of information and funds. Now she had been sent on perhaps the most important task and had nothing more than one sheet of paper. It was deeply worrying.