Leaves of Flame (12 page)

“He may be right,” Eraeth said.

“Yes, but he believes our failure to eliminate the Wraiths is because we are not showing enough faith—­in Aielan, in the Flame… in the Chosen. He believes the Lords of the Evant, and the Tamaell in particular, have fallen short of Aielan’s regard. He believes that it is Aielan’s will that the Order rise up and seize control, that only then can we defeat the Wraiths and the sukrael.”

“With himself as Chosen.”

Aeren nodded. “He thinks the war with the Wraiths is a religious war, and that only with the Order in power can the Alvritshai prevail.”

“I would think he would welcome my help then,” Colin muttered, “since I have brought him the Tree, and now the knife.”

“And have a human be the savior of the Alvritshai?” Eraeth scoffed. “He has reserved that role for himself.”

Moiran returned, trailing a few servants who began clearing out the remains of the food, leaving the wine. “Are the members of the Order situated?” Aeren asked.

“I have placed them in the farthest corner of the house, on the second level. They will have a spectacular view of the lake.”

Aeren smiled. “And be as far from this discussion as possible.”

Moiran sat down beside Colin. “I have no idea what you are insinuating,” she said innocently. “Now, what did I miss?”

“We were discussing Lotaern.”

“He wants the knife, to solidify and regain some of his lost power within the Evant,” Moiran said succinctly. At Fedaureon’s annoyed look, she added, “I was the Tamaea of the Evant at one point, Fedaureon. I know how power works and is wielded.” Then she turned to Colin. “But the caitan asked an important question: Why did you come here?
Even using the pass and the halls beneath the mountain, you did not need to come to Artillien.”

Colin could hear in the tone of her voice that she already knew the answer and did not approve. Taking a deep breath, he caught and held Aeren’s gaze and said, “I need reinforcements. I was hoping—­”

“No.” Moiran stood as her voice cut across Colin’s, so she could glare down at Aeren. “You are a Lord of the House of Evant. You will not traipse off to the White Wastes.”

“It’s winter. Anything that would require the attention of the Lord of House Rhyssal can be handled by its heir.”

Moiran crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the way Fedaureon perked up in his seat. “It is winter, yes, which means that the White Wastes will be as dangerous and as deadly as at any other time of the year. And it is not the heir’s responsibility to care for the House.”

“But it will be.”

Moiran did not immediately respond, but she did not move either. Colin shared a glance with Eraeth, who still held the knife. Fedaureon had shifted forward and now sat on the edge of his seat, his head bowed, eyes on the ground, although Colin could see the tightness in his shoulders. Daevon regarded his charge with a slight frown of disapproval. The tension in the room was awkward and strained.

Then, in a quiet voice that throbbed with suppressed emotion, Moiran said, “I have already lost one husband to the Evant and the protection of the Alvritshai. I do not want to lose another.”

Aeren stilled, a frown darkening his face, and then he stood as well, reached forward to grip Moiran’s shoulders. She tensed, met his gaze with head tilted upward, mouth set. “Fedaureon can handle the House, especially with you and his Protector here to guide him. And I will not be venturing out alone. I will have Eraeth with me as my Protector, and members of my own Phalanx.”

Moiran pulled out of his grasp, reached down to take up the last decanter of wine, but halted before Eraeth, the Protector stiffening. “Bring him back to me.”

Then she left, the room silent except for the crackle of the fire. Slowly, the tension bled from the room, until Fedaureon finally stirred.

Before he could speak, Aeren said, “Never defy your mother like that, Fedaureon.”

“Not if you value your life,” Eraeth muttered, then he placed the knife back onto the metal mesh of the cloth. Colin folded it up and packed the knife away in his satchel.

“Do you expect trouble from the Flame?”

Colin shook his head. “Not immediately, no. The only reason I think Lotaern allowed me to leave Caercaern with the knife in my possession is that it hasn’t been tested yet, and he knew it would be nearly impossible for him to take it from me and keep it. But I’d feel better having you and Eraeth by my side, rather than only members of the Flame.” He stood, caught Aeren’s gaze. “There’s no need, though, if you’d rather respect Moiran’s wishes. I can handle it myself.”

Aeren shook his head. “I agree with you. We cannot allow Lotaern to take control of the knife. I can’t say he’d use it as we fear, not with certainty, but if there’s something I can do to keep that possibility from occurring, then I’ll do it. And what I said was true. Fedaureon is more than capable of handling the House while I’m gone.”

“Then how long do you need to prepare?”

Aeren smiled. It made him appear twenty years younger. “I can be ready to leave before midday tomorrow.”

“Shaeveran is on the move,” Khalaek reported. Around him, the other Wraiths—­six in all, dwarren and Alvritshai—­stirred, but Khalaek kept his eyes fixed on the human, Walter, the ostensible leader. Khalaek could barely keep his lip
from twisting in derision at the thought, but without Walter—­without the Lifeblood—­he would have died on the battlefields of the Escarpment, a sacrifice made by Thaedoran to the human king in order to solidify the peace Accord. Khalaek’s hatred of Thaedoran overrode his contempt of Walter… at the moment. He could wait.

Walter held his gaze unflinchingly, but Khalaek did not back down. “Where is Colin headed?”

“To Lord Aeren’s estates. He has likely already arrived.”

“Lord Aeren is a friend. Are you certain Colin knows what we have started?”

“He knows. He spoke to the Chosen before departing, and is escorted by the Flame. He must know of the imbalance.”

Walter smiled, and Tuvaellis—­one of the other Alvritshai Wraiths, a woman—­said, “You do not seem disturbed by this.”

Walter chuckled. “I’m not. Colin was bound to notice that something was amiss eventually. I doubt he realizes exactly what, as yet.”

“Should we alter our plans?” Arturo asked. He was dwarren. The beads and feathers strewn throughout his beard, and the chains running from the rings in his ears to the one in his nose, proclaimed him a clan chief; the oily darkness swirling beneath his leathery, wrinkled skin claimed him as Wraith.

“No.” Walter moved to a chunk of crystal set to one side, part of what had once been the ceiling of the immense room where they had gathered. Other shards of crystal littered the room on all sides, surrounding an open pit in the center of the room. On top of this crystal rested a small wooden box, polished to a fine sheen. He picked up the box, turned, and handed it to Tuvaellis. She gripped the handles on both side, but Walter did not let go. “You understand the importance of this? The human forces in Andover in the old
continent must not be allowed to aid the Provinces here in the new, nor the Alvritshai or dwarren. This will guarantee that they are otherwise occupied. If you fail.…”

“I will not fail.” Tuvaellis’ tone was mildly offended.

“Very well. You should depart now. Our contact in King Justinian’s Court will be waiting for you.”

Tuvaellis nodded as Walter released the box. She tucked it under her arm and blurred away. Walter turned toward Arturo and Khalaek. “Begin gathering your forces. They will need to be ready to move shortly.”

“Are you certain Shaeveran will not cause problems?” Khalaek recalled what the human had done to their plans at the Escarpment.

“By the time he figures out what our true goal is, it will be too late.” Walter caught Courranen’s gaze, Khalaek’s fellow Alvritshai straightening where he stood. “Besides, I do not intend to leave him as a loose thread. You know where he will head once he learns of the imbalance. Courranen will be waiting for him when he arrives.”

Colin, Aeren, and their entourage left the seat of the lord’s House at midday, Moiran and Fedaureon standing at the entrance to the main house surrounded by Daevon, the Rhyssal House Phalanx, and a few servants. More Phalanx held the gates open as Colin, Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest mounted their horses and situated their satchels and packs, then turned to go. Vaeren and the rest of the Order were already waiting restlessly to one side, the caitan of the Flame’s expression disgruntled and impatient. He flicked the reins of his horse as Aeren spoke to his own caitan, then the man stepped back and Aeren motioned toward the gates. The Lord of Rhyssal House turned back once to nod toward Moiran and his son, and then they were through the gates and headed down to Artillien.

“Do you want me to call them back?” Colin asked as Vaeren and the rest of the Order charged ahead, taking the lead. “I am, ostensibly, their leader, and we are on your own lands.”

Aeren smiled and shook his head. “Let them posture. I’m secure enough in my own power as Lord of House Rhyssal, even with an escort of only three Phalanx.” Eraeth coughed meaningfully and Aeren smiled, adding, “And my Protector.”

They reached the town of Artillien, and the Alvritshai on the streets stopped to stare as the Order of the Flame passed by. A few waved toward Aeren, the lord nodding in their direction. They skirted the marketplace, swept past the temple of Aielan, one of the acolytes outside pausing as he brushed snow from the stone window ledges. He genuflected toward the Flame, Siobhaen returning the gesture.

Then they passed outside the town into the fields beyond. Sunlight broke through the layer of clouds, blazing harshly on the snow, and Colin raised one hand to shade his eyes. To the left, the lake gleamed a deep blue, riddled with waves from a brisk wind from the west. As soon as they cleared the outskirts of the town, Vaeren picked up the pace, taking them west along the road as it curved around the water. The wind struck Colin full in the face, burning his skin raw, until they reached the shelter of the cedar and pine trees beyond.

After that, Colin pulled up the hood of his cloak and settled in for the ride, nearly everyone else following suit.

They rode for three days, angling northwest as soon as the roads allowed. On the fourth day, they entered Nuant House lands, the maroon-­and-­gold House colors supplanting the blue and red of Rhyssal. Away from Aeren’s lands, the lord received more piercing looks and second glances, but it was
the Order that caught and held nearly everyone’s attention. The only connection the commoners had to the Order was through their acolytes in the local temples. Seeing the Order of the Flame passing through their village caused a stir. More than one acolyte emerged from his temple to offer the group a place to rest and refresh before continuing on their journey. Vaeren rarely accepted, except when Siobhaen caught his attention and murmured something for his ears only. On these occasions, Siobhaen spent most of her time within the temple, kneeling before the small basins that mimicked the large one in the Sanctuary back in Caercaern. The acolytes would hastily fill the basin with oil, perform a short ritual, and then light the basin so that Siobhaen and the other members of the Flame could pray before it. Always at the end of her prayers, Siobhaen would remove a pouch from her satchel and toss something into the flames, the acolytes in attendance gasping as the fires in the basin burned a harsh, brilliant white. Then she’d run her fingers through the soot beneath the basin and mark her face before rising, the others often doing the same.