Concealed: The Taellaneth - Book 1 Page 6

  “They did not say, my lord.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, holding back words with effort, lips thinned together. Perhaps wondering which of his fellow warriors had died without record, for no living warrior would allow their medallion to be taken.

  “Now we know,” the elder said quietly, setting aside Kester’s concerns. The others agreed, clearly needing no explanation. Arrow tightened her jaw. Disposable, she had told the ‘kin. She had been right. “I assume the Prime was informed that no warrior would leave that behind?”

  “He was, my lord,” Arrow confirmed.

  “Good.” It was not praise, simply satisfaction. Whether because his plans were unfolding as expected, or for some other reason it was impossible to tell, and he would not share anything more with her even if she asked.

  “She was remarkably graceful,” Kester commented, dragging his attention away from the small, damning object in the snow.

  “Hard to tell size without any scale to measure it by,” Juinis noted.

  “The scene looks primitive,” Eimille vel Falsen said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Completely untamed.” It was hard to tell from the slight pinching of her expression if she disapproved or was envious of the untamed space that the shifkin claimed as their own.

  “What is that creature?” The elder was irritated, leaning closer to the mirror to get a better look at the dark shape that had followed Marianne Stillwater across the mountain.

  “Show us a larger image,” Gret vo Regresan commanded, not taking his eyes off the mirror.

  Arrow complied without comment, taking a breath against the sharp pain in her head. The image on the screen wavered a moment to the immediate protest of the gathered Taellan, then the mirror settled to a larger image of the dark form. The edges of the creature were indistinct, the dark shape filling the mirror’s frame.

  “What kind of camouflage is that?” Gret asked, fretting.

  “Perhaps we could ask the Preceptor for his views,” Kester speculated. “If anyone would know then it is he.”

  “We do not wish the world to know,” Gret objected.

  “The Preceptor knows how to be discreet,” Juinis commented quietly, supporting his vestrait brother.

  “He is not of Family.” Eimille, longest serving of the Taellan, voiced her objection, tradition winning over her own curiosity.

  “Play it again, focusing on the creature,” the elder commanded. Arrow silently changed the mirror’s focus again, showing the first appearance of the unknown shape again.

  The elder’s attention was fixed on the images in the mirror as the dark shape moved awkwardly across the clearing.

  “Is this at normal speed?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” Arrow needed only the inflection of his voice to know she was being addressed.

  “The creature has a strange gait,” Kester said. “Did the Prime or his son make any comment on it?”

  “No, my lord.”

  The elder wanted another replay. Arrow obeyed, ignoring the stab behind her left eye, focusing instead on making the image as clear as she could. Magic had recorded the images, and it required magic and concentration to retrieve them. The Taellan had never cared if she was comfortable, so there was no point in mentioning her headache. She clenched her jaw slightly, watching them watching the recording, wondering how many of them would have made it through the wild of Farraway Mountain to the site. Kester would, she realised immediately. Former White Guard, he would likely regard the hike as little more than a stroll.

  “It does not appear Erith,” Juinis commented at the end of the review, breaking through Arrow’s thoughts. The other Taellan agreed without hesitation, even the elder. That meant little. Juinis’ observation had been carefully phrased. Arrow’s opinion was not sought. She thought that the figure could be of any race as it was so heavily disguised.

  “How could you not get a clear image?” Gret asked peevishly, peering at the blur. Arrow shook her head slightly. Holding the images was not as difficult as the actual spell had been, but her energy was not fully recovered, and she had had a long day’s driving besides.

  “I cannot be certain, my lord. I speculate that whatever being was on the mountain used a camouflage to hide their identity.”

  “But you should have been able to see through it,” Eimille vel Falsen pointed out. None of the Erith were looking at her but Arrow still inclined her head slightly in respect.

  “My lady, not necessarily. I did not detect any magic at the site before I began. The spell I used was simply designed to tell me what had been there. It was not designed to counter any magic that had been in the place.”

  “What spell did you use?” the elder asked.

  “Serran vo Liathius’ resurrection spell, my lord.” The founding Preceptor of the Academy, one of the most powerful magicians in Erith history. The Taellan’s natural reserve was broken for a moment as they glanced back at her with expressions of disbelief. Lord Liathius’ spells were renowned as being among the most effective, and most complex of Erith magic working, requiring powerful magicians to wield them. The Taellan were strong in Erith magic, but not one of them was powerful enough to wield one of the former Preceptor’s spells.

  “The detail should be there, then,” Eimille vel Falsen speculated. “Serran did nothing by halves.” Oldest member of the Taellan, Eimille had served more than one monarch and was likely one of the few Taellan to have known Serran from his youth.

  “We need a clear view of this creature,” the elder agreed.

  “Perhaps if we combined our wills,” Gret said slowly, eyes on the blurred image. Eimille frowned at him for a moment before nodding her assent.

  “Perhaps an unravelling spell,” the lady suggested. The others agreed.

  A moment later the Taellan spoke the simple spell and combined and released their own magic. With single purpose, the counsellors directed their magic and their will at the uncooperative spell mirror, trying to peel back the camouflage through sheer force.

  Arrow had the bare space of a heartbeat to realise what was happening. In their rush to uncover the truth, the Taellan had forgotten that they were watching a recording. Their power found nothing in the mirror to latch onto, the mirror simply reflecting a reflection. The only active spell was Arrow’s spell to show the scene on the mirror. The lash of power rebounded, seeking magic to unravel, and scorched through Arrow. She lost her concentration, her spell shattering. The mirror shivered before it fragmented, sending another backlash of magic into the air. She lost her balance, the recoil of the Taellan’s’ power searing through her body, sending her falling, first to her knees and then onto her side. Power ripped free into the air.

  Above her head every loose object in the room fell, toppled by the whirlwind. Unleashed with the simple purpose of stripping away the disguise over the shadow, the Taellan’s power twisted into a vortex, seeking a target. Arrow drew a deep, shuddering breath, vision dimming as she focused her remaining strength, putting her trained will against the untamed power, binding it to do no harm. The words of the simplest binding spell rasped in her throat. The power twisted, railing against her hasty confinement, seeking to fulfil its purpose, testing the binding that Arrow had thrown up.

  Lying on her side, Arrow scrabbled for a safe release for the checked bundle of energy. Seggerat’s study had an open chimney, with a fire lit. Tasting blood in her mouth, Arrow gathered her will, requiring every scrap of training to keep focus, and shoved the snarl of magic towards the chimney, adding a command for dispersal underneath her hastily put together binding. Pushed towards an escape, the power danced up the chimney with the smoke, sending sparks into the air. The night air above that chimney would be brilliant with fireworks as the magic dispersed.

  Arrow heaved a breath, lungs searing, shaking with the aftermath, holding herself to consciousness long enough to be certain that the power dispersed without harm to anyone. The last thing she saw before blackness took her were the ornately embroidered to
es of Seggerat’s hand-sewn silk slippers.

  She came back to her senses moments later, pulled out of her faint by a surge of Erith magic. There was a thump of displaced air against her exposed face, the by-product of a translocation spell, a rattle as the loose objects in the room were shaken again, followed by voices raised in fury. Behind the loud voices were soft voices speaking with concern, and a keening sound of distress. No one was paying her attention, so she had a moment’s grace to realise that the translocation spell was not dangerous magic and then to draw a careful breath before opening her eyes, vision blurred.

  The first thing she was able to focus on as her eyes cleared was a pair of sturdy boots planted firmly not far from where she lay. Her stomach lurched and sank. She recognised those boots. She had thrown up on them on one memorable occasion during her Academy training. Something had called Preceptor Evellan from the Academy, something so dangerous to his mind that he had used a translocation spell straight into a Taellan’s residence. It was a shocking breach of protocol, and one of the angry voices she could hear was Seggerat vo Regersfel expressing his displeasure.

  She slowly sat up, careful to avoid the various delicate objects that had fallen to the floor. Her body was trembling in reaction, the force of so much magic through her and the near-miss. Unconstrained, the magic would have killed her. Could have killed them all. Her chest tightened, and she had to force a breath. The air in the room was thick with the bitter aftertaste of burning magic and the scent of the spilled wine, soaking into the hand-woven floor covering.

  “How dare you invade my home?” Seggerat was furious. It was not the first time he had said that, but this time he paused to allow the Preceptor to answer.

  “I came in response to rogue magic,” the Preceptor responded, equally furious. “What has happened here?”

  “The lady is injured.” That was Gret, his voice high and petulant.

  “A nosebleed.” The Preceptor dismissed the injury.

  “An injury that that lady should not have sustained,” Seggerat intervened, voice now smooth and quiet. It was not the quiet of calm but of repressed anger. Arrow blinked and turned her head.

  Eimille vel Falsen did indeed have a nosebleed. The elderly Erith was sitting in a chair, a slightly shocked expression on her normally impassive face, a delicate lace handkerchief held to her nose. A few drops of bright Erith blood marked the handkerchief. The House Regersfel healer was by her side, the healer’s bag open at his feet, a maid from the House standing by holding fresh, fine cloths and a bowl of water for the healer.

  Arrow tried to get her feet under her. She could taste copper in her mouth and her ears were ringing from the aftermath of the magic. It was something of a miracle that she was still alive. She was not quite sure how, but she had managed to get the unused power out of the building without harm to anyone. Nausea rose; it had been close. Too close. She did not want to think about that. Another near miss to add to many. Her task was done. For now, she focused on getting herself to her knees and then, wobbling a bit, to her feet.

  She found herself beside the Preceptor. He was still in his teaching robes, his hair in wild disarray around his aristocratic features, burnished skin shadowed. Most of the candles had been snuffed out, walls cast with uneven shadows.

  “You,” Seggerat snapped at Arrow.

  “My lord.” Arrow could not bow, sure she would topple over if she tried, but she could manage basic courtesy.

  “Get out,” Seggerat told her, voice clipped, eyes snapping.

  Arrow made the tiniest of bows, movement slow and stiff. She was about to leave the room when the Preceptor waved a hand in front of her, cutting through her path. She froze.

  “A moment.”

  “I have dismissed it,” Seggerat informed the Preceptor, voice and face tight.

  “No one will leave until matters have been explained to my satisfaction,” the Preceptor said, maintaining a relatively calm voice with evident effort.

  “I do not require to explain myself to you,” Seggerat snapped.

  “In matters of magic, you do.” Evellan had been Preceptor of the Erith Academy for many years, since long before Arrow’s birth, and was not daunted by one annoyed elder.

  “Your pupil was deficient,” Seggerat told the Preceptor. “A simple spell. And it caused all this.” The elder’s sweeping hand indicated the objects lying haphazardly over the room and Eimille vel Falsen’s bleeding nose.

  The Preceptor’s eyes narrowed, amber sparks glinting in his dark eyes. “Please tell me precisely what happened.”

  “A simple reconstruction spell.” Seggerat waved his hand towards the shattered spell mirror on his desk. “My mirror is ruined.”

  “A reconstruction spell? Arrow performed a reconstruction spell here?”

  Arrow held her ground as the Preceptor’s rage was transferred to her.

  “My lord, I performed a reconstruction spell on Farraway Mountain to seek the truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death.” Unlike the others present, she had faced the Preceptor’s wrath more than once and knew he always listened to clear and honest answers.

  “So, what happened here?”

  “A recording of the reconstruction,” Kester vo Halsfeld put in. He spread his hands, long fingers open wide. “I do not know what happened.”

  “So, Arrow played the recording of the reconstruction onto the mirror?” the Preceptor summarised. “Then what?”

  “There was a blank in the recording,” Kester added.

  “A blank? How could that be?”

  “Your pupil was incompetent,” Gret said.

  “Arrow?”

  “My lord, a subject of the recording had used some camouflage. The reconstruction spell could not penetrate it. I encountered the same difficulty on Farraway Mountain.”

  “So, then what happened?” The magician glared at the younger Halsfeld lord.

  Kester glanced sideways at the other Taellan. Even through the strange sensations in her head Arrow could see his discomfort. The newest, youngest, Taellan, Kester was torn between loyalty to his colleagues and the demand of the highest authority of Erith magic.

  “We tried to penetrate the disguise,” Seggerat informed the Preceptor, unwittingly rescuing Kester.

  “Penetrate ...” The Preceptor’s scowl transferred from the elder’s face to the shattered mirror, to Arrow, then back to the elder. “Do you mean to tell me, my lord, that five Taellan attempted a reveal spell?”

  “That is so.”

  “Upon a recording?”

  “We believed we could uncover the truth.”

  Arrow watched, fascinated, as the Preceptor closed his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly. She thought she recognised the text. It was a favourite of his, an Erith warrior’s prayer for courage and patience.

  “My lord,” the Preceptor opened his eyes at length, amber sparks of Erith magic strong in his gaze as he fixed the elder in his sights, “neither you nor any of the Taellan shall attempt the use of collective magic without my express permission or authority. Is that clearly understood?”

  “You ...”

  “I am appointed by their gracious majesties with the sacred task of ensuring the preservation and learning of Erith magic.” There was power bound into the Preceptor’s words; power that was his from birth, supplemented by the power granted by their majesties. The Taellan were bound by the Preceptor’s voice just as surely as the new pupils at the Academy were bound.

  “So be it.” Seggerat was wise enough to know when he was defeated, displeasure plain in his pinched expression. He drew himself up. “You may be certain that their majesties will hear of this.”

  “You may make your own report if you wish, my lord,” the Preceptor conceded. He glanced at Arrow, brows drawing together, mouth flattening. “Arrow, you are bleeding. Go and get cleaned up. Report to my study at noon tomorrow and we will look at this camouflage.”

  “My lord.” Arrow managed a slightly deeper bow. She bowed slightly to the Taellan, the rin
ging in her ears worse as she moved her head, then very slowly made her way out of the room and back to her residence.

  It was only when she returned to her residence that she caught sight of her reflection in the dark windows. She paused, startled. She looked feral, eyes wide, expression dazed. Her hair, normally wildly curling, was standing on end in all directions. There was a thick trail of blood running from her nose down her chin, and further tracks of blood along her neck from both ears. Not the first time she had bled in service of the Erith, or when she had used too much magic. Her head ached with the aftermath, a deep ache only several hours’ sleep would cure.

  Getting ready for sleep she flinched slightly, realising that she must have bled over the elder’s handmade heirloom rug, and all too easily picturing his wrath at the discovery. The rug was far more valuable to him than she was. Closing her eyes, she found her face wet, wondering what new punishment Eshan would think of for her and exhausted at the mere thought.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Getting to the Preceptor’s study required an all too familiar dance, avoiding the other Teaching Masters and Mistresses who might try and divert her, including Gesser vo Regresan, who had positioned himself along the Academy’s main corridor, the sour scowl on his face making the students tread carefully around him. Arrow took an alternate route, one the spoiled lord would not have thought of, through the concealed servants’ passages that were built into every high-status Erith building.

  She made it to the familiar territory of the Preceptor’s study without incident, a little out of breath, soothed immediately by her surroundings. Fifteenth cycle students spent a great deal of time in tutorials with the Academy’s master, standing in a loose circle on the scarred wooden floor, trying to follow whatever task the Preceptor had set for them that day.

  Some of Arrow’s best memories of learning magic were in this room, with its one wall of spelled glass letting in as much light as possible, motes of chalk dust hanging in the air, the familiar creak of the wooden boards underfoot, and the thrill that was the unfolding of knowledge in her mind. Working her own magic, watching the spells she created come to life, brought back memories of the wonder Nassaran had shown her in early childhood when he would settle down with her and show her the beauty in the simplest objects around. A blade of grass. The fast beating wings of a butterfly. Even the beetles that crawled on the earth.