Betrayed, page 27
part #3 of The Taellaneth Series
“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.”
“We keep an eye on him,” the senior added, seemingly reluctant to speak so freely, “as he has several times attempted to cross our wards.”
“Attempted?”
“Does it matter?” Miach’s eyes were bright. He had a target for his rage and grief.
“I think it does. Sirs?”
“In the last few weeks he has tried to reach the dungeons, the Queen’s chambers and the Consort’s rooms more than once.”
“He has long wanted power,” Kallish said, quickly checking her weaponry, words directed to Miach. “Send Elias with the Consort. We will come with you for Priath.”
“Careful,” Arrow warned, “he has been concealing his skill. And will not be alone.”
“That is why you will come with us.”
“It does not fit,” Kester objected. He had somehow detached himself from the listening Taellan and stood next to Miach. “He has wanted to be part of the Taellan, not sit on the throne.”
“We will ask him when we find him,” Kallish promised, and strode away, issuing orders as though she, not Miach, were in charge.
Miach was standing perfectly still, arrested expression on his face, even as his cadre prepared for battle.
“No. He does not want the crown,” he said after a pause. “He would rather sit in the shadows behind the crown.”
Arrow nodded. That fit with her own observations of the man.
“And do his work through others,” she added, “so very little is actually done by him.”
“He still needs found.” Kallish was not going to be diverted.
“And we need to talk to the ladies.” The ladies in waiting even now kept in the dungeon.
“We need you for Priath,” Kallish objected.
Arrangements made, the group dispersed. The Taellan were left, still in a state of shock with one of their number dead on the floor, under watch of their cadre. Elias’ cadre escorted Noverian, Orlis, Gilean, Evellan and Seivella back to the annex along with the Palace ward keepers, who promised to reinforce the building’s defences so that even a shadow-walker could not get through, with a knowing look in Arrow’s direction. Arrow took note of, and filed away for the future, the confidence they had that they could block a shadow-walker.
Miach and Kallish’s cadres, with Arrow and Kester, headed through the Palace, the Erith going at a fast enough pace to draw the swift attention of every Erith they passed. The entire Palace would be ablaze with gossip within a very short space of time, Arrow knew. She also knew that it could not be helped. They could not give Priath any warning.
~
In the end, her attendance was not required. They found Priath sitting in his own rooms, casually sipping Erith tea, waiting for them. He was pale, jaw set and determined, but not surprised to find two cadre of furious warriors seeking his immediate arrest. That alone set everyone on high alert.
Searching Priath and his rooms took the rest of the day and uncovered nothing, even when Miach, furious, made the lord strip and checked his entire person for marks, finding nothing. Arrow used her second sight and even stepped into shadows, outside Priath’s presence, to see what they had missed. She gained a headache and a nosebleed but no new information. Whatever the lord had done, he had concealed it well. Their only evidence of his involvement was the additional ward spell on Diannea, which Arrow could confirm was his work. Evidence that he had conspired with Diannea, at least, and she had brought a knife meant for Noverian. Perhaps enough for a conviction of attempted murder. Not nearly enough to satisfy Miach.
Miach’s original impulse was to send the lord to the dungeons, checked only when Kallish reminded him that the dungeons would be quite full by now, and it might not be a good idea to put all the conspirators in the same place. Instead, another cadre of White Guard and a pair of war mages that Arrow did not know, were assigned first watch over the lord.
They left the lord’s rooms in the mid of night, all weary to the bone, Arrow feeling hollow and light headed from magic use and hunger.
“The lady’s rooms?” she asked, annoyed with herself for not thinking of it earlier.
“Under guard, along with her House. The C … the Regent will need to decide how that will be dealt with.” Miach ran a hand through his hair, smoothing back wisps that were coming free from his braids. He looked around the group. “We all need some rest.”
“The annex has room,” Kallish offered. She was less weary, but even her normally pristine appearance was rumpled.
“Yes.”
So they made their way back to the annex and found it crowded but, as Kallish had said, with room. Particularly as none of the White Guard minded sleeping on bed rolls on whatever patch of floor they could find.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Everyone else was busy with something or other. The entire Palace was drawing breath. Emergency repairs were being carried out, injuries healed and preparations underway for the Queen’s funeral rites the following day. The Erith believed in releasing their dead as soon as possible.
And after the funeral rites there would be more ceremony, which seemed to require as much preparation as the funeral. Apparently Noverian required to take public oaths as Regent, and the former Consort seemed at least as concerned about his outfit for the occasion as he was about the ceremony itself. He had what appeared to be the entire household of Palace servants bustling about, searching for the perfect shade of red for a suit for the occasion. There had been at least four dozen bolts of cloth brought for his inspection before he, with apparent reluctance, settled on one, and then began a similar painstaking process of discussing the shape of the outfit.
For all the attention to his wardrobe, he still looked frail, requiring close attendance from both Orlis and Gilean. Evellan and Seivella had collapsed and were under careful watch of the Palace healers.
Miach was re-ordering the White Guard. Those at the Palace at least. Arrow could foresee some fiery discussions with Lord Whintnath ahead, the head of the White Guard still at the Taellaneth, maintaining the Taellaneth’s borders.
And in the middle of all the activity and bustle there was nothing, for the moment, that Arrow could do. There would be no more investigations today. Her eyes were blurred from the different shades of cloth. Gilean was found. Priath was under watch. The null was under watch. She was as safe as she could be among the Erith.
And she had the sense of a small, and fast-closing, opportunity to explore the heartland. To take a pause of her own, see what she could before she was sent into exile once more.
There were questions to be answered. There was a murderer still on the loose. But today was not a day for pursuing that.
She set off with no particular direction in mind, taking in everything around her, trying to store up the memories and impressions in case she did not return.
Her feet were sore and her mind swirling with images before the day was half done. As the afternoon faded, she found herself drawn, on impulse, outside the main Palace buildings, past workmen assessing the damage the heartland had caused, along a remarkably plain path that led her to the oldest parts of the Palace. No longer inhabited, the windows blank, no movement or lights inside despite the gathering night. At another time the empty spaces might have felt threatening, and yet she was quite sure that there was no threat in the quiet buildings around her, a warm coil of the heartland’s magic, a feather-light touch on her shoulder, next to her sword hilt, urging her onward.
The oldest buildings of the Palace, perhaps the oldest buildings the Erith had, were arranged in a great circle around a tree so ancient that it hurt Arrow’s eyes to look at it, and she had to shut down her second sight completely. Still her feet took her forward.
She stopped, breathing too fast and chest tight. The heart of the Erith. The great tree, more magic than bark and branch, the roots of it stretching deep into the ground, too deep and too far for her senses to follow. Its branches shivered in a light breeze showing the first buds of spring, the fully open leaves of summer, the golds of autumn and the bare branches of winter. Everything cast in vibrant, abundant life. The brighter, daylight twin to the shadow world. And she should not be here. Years of derision and contempt from the Erith rose up in her memory. Arwmverishan. Abomination. The unwanted, unNamed creature.
She was about to move, letting her feet take her away, when the tendril of the heartland’s magic pressed, ever so slightly, on her shoulder.
The heartland wanted her to stay. The understanding came without words, in the coil of magic around her, and the loneliness in that wordless request closed her throat and she had to swallow before she could answer.
“For a bit. Alright.”
The weight of the heartland’s presence pressed her feet into the soil, sent her leaning back against the thick trunk of the tree, sheltered and protected by its branches and leaves. Nothing could touch her. No one could hurt her. No one could harm her. It was the safest she had ever felt in her life. The sheer scale of the presence made her believe it. The heartland’s protection was huge and sincere.
The heartland wanted her here. Her. Here. In the midst of the astonishing beauty of the Erith lands. Where there was magic visible in the air. Where there were wonders she had only read about waiting to be seen.
A great part of her wanted to stay. The little she had seen beyond the Palace was beautiful. And there were others out there, mixed race like her. People who might understand the difficulties of not being pure Erith but living among the people.
And there were Erith who would accept her without name calling. The Queen herself had shown kindness, and her first guard had shown her a portrait of her mother. Not all Erith despised her.
But.
“I cannot stay.”
The pressure did not ease, a soundless plea coursing through her, catching the breath in her throat.
“I am not welcome here. A half-breed. Nameless. No House.” Her chest hurt saying the words. However true they were, it still hurt.
A swell of emotion washed over her from the second world, the heartland’s anger and determination.
“I would like to come and visit again. Explore a little more. Hopefully without anyone trying to kill me.” The humour fell flat, even to her own ears. The pressure in her chest eased as the heartland considered it, then gentled to another feather-light caress, this one on her left cheek, high on the cheekbone. A brief kiss which carried the heat of summer, the crisp green of spring, the chill bite of winter and the rich shades of autumn. A wish of safety. A sense, grafted into her very bones, that here was somewhere she was and would always be welcome.
Whatever had held her against the tree was gone and she stepped out of its shade, not surprised to find more tears on her face. The heartland’s presence contained everything that was Erith. All the beauty, the pride, the arrogance, the savagery, the artistry, and the love they were capable of, the dark and the light all mixed together, the light out of reach for Arrow.
She walked through the spaces between silent, unoccupied buildings until she heard voices. A number of the Palace inhabitants had gathered, the heady scent of food carrying in the light breeze. Not wanting company, she skirted around the noise, finding a place in shadow to observe one of the gatherings. They were courtiers, brightly dressed but less merry than they would normally be, exchanging soft words. A remembrance for their Queen, perhaps.
From this distance none of the Erith’s darkness was visible, only the beauty, each one as striking as the next, voices a soothing melody as she could not hear the individual words, the bright array of colours somehow pleasing to her eyes. Her chest hurt again. She had seen so little of the Palace, of the heartland, or everything that was most of her heritage, and after the brief glimpse she was to be excluded again, a Nameless outcast. It should not hurt so much. The heartland, and the Palace, held no safety. Not for her. And there was nothing to hold her here, not really. Her eyes, disobeying her mind, searched the crowd for Orlis, or Gilean, or Kallish, or Kester. Perhaps especially Kester, an odd sense that she may not see him again taking hold.
And why would they see each other again, she asked herself, adopting a stern tone. An exile and a Taellan. There was no common ground. They had fought together, yes, and he had sought to offer her something that she still did not understand. But beyond that. Nothing. She had more in common with Kallish, more shared experience, and an oddly keen understanding of the older Erith’s quirks, like her love of human technology that sat oddly with her pristine appearance as the most proper of White Guard.
She should leave. Go back to the Taellaneth and then to the workspace. Things were much simpler there.
Yet there was something, like a loose thread, that kept trying to get her attention. Miach thought that he had all the conspirators gathered. All dead or under guard. Priath and Learvis still to be questioned, answered not yet complete. Knowing that, she still had the strong sense that her tasks were not yet done. Something had been overlooked. It seemed all too neat. It made no sense that Priath had acted all on his own, or that he had done anything directly at all. He preferred manipulation to action. Queris vo Lianen’s desperate bid for power made sense and fit with his character. Priath’s apparent actions did not. Neither did Diannea vel Sovernis’ attempt to kill the former Consort. And Learvis had not named Priath as his co-conspirator in Teresea’s death. Teresea’s killer was the dangerous one, identity not yet revealed.
Her eyes shimmered silver in the dark. There was something she had missed. She needed information.
~
The library was, not surprisingly, empty and still at this hour, between midnight and dawn, so Arrow had the place to herself as she searched the records cards for the correct index. The constructs had not bothered her, purring contentedly as they recognised her and let her past. Their unceasing vigilance meant she was confident of not being disturbed.
“What are you looking for?”
Kester’s voice, soft as it was, startled her enough into an undignified start and squeak of surprise. She glanced over her shoulder to find him standing outside the reach of her wards, dressed as a warrior once more. Keeping one finger on the record she had found, she turned more fully to scowl.
“I was trying to be discreet.”
Something crossed Kester’s face as he looked at her. Surprise. Recognition. The tiniest hint of a smile. Amused at her annoyance, perhaps. Whatever it was, the expression was gone before she could trace it, and he answered her question.
“You were. Kallish is quite upset you managed to persuade the door guards to let you out earlier. The only reason she is not here is because it would create more fuss.”
