Leaves of Flame (2 page)

But they would. The lords of the Provinces craved land and the resources that came with it. They’d succeeded in breaking free from the Court of Andover and the chokehold of the Families during the Feud, now ended. They’d seized the coast of the new world and held it in a firm grip, pushing the Andovans back. But they needed to retain that hold, and that required a strong presence in the New World.

Colin grimaced and shook his head. The affairs of the Provinces were not his concern at the moment. The expansion of the humans to the south and east had strained the treaty and relations between the three races, but the treaty had survived. That was all that mattered. The real threats were the Wraiths and the Shadows.

He hefted the satchel against his shoulder, felt the weight of it, reassuring himself that the three forged cuttings were still there, wrapped in muslin cloth for protection. He’d left the fourth cutting under the Faelehgre’s protection, until he could determine what to do with it.

As he shifted under the satchel’s weight, a light caught his attention in the distance.

He slowed, squinted to the northeast. At first he saw nothing, the urgency of reaching Caercaern on time pressing down upon his shoulders, but then he caught the light again—­a familiar white light, incredibly bright.

He cursed and began running toward the light, even though he knew he was already too late.

He slowed as he neared and saw the scattering of wagons and bodies, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his throat threatening to close off. He sucked in air, tried to convince himself that he was short of breath because of the run and his exhaustion, but he knew better. The images of his own family’s wagon train, trapped at the cusp of the Ostraell, sliced too keenly across his vision. He clutched at the front of his clothes with his free hand, found and gripped the crescent-­shaped pendant that hung from his neck but lay hidden beneath the cloth, as all vows should be, even if those vows had remained unfulfilled. The edges of the crescent that cradled the empty blood vial bit into his palm and fingers and he focused on that pain, used it to push thoughts of Karen’s lifeless body to one side. She’d died over a hundred years ago, on these plains, cradled close to Colin’s chest. And she’d been killed the same way these people had.

Straightening, Colin moved into the shadows of the wagons, the cedar staff held out before him, even though he had not yet allowed time to resume. He paused at the body of a young girl, no more than twelve, crumpled to the ground next to the wheel of one of the wagons. Her face was tilted toward the moonlight, her eyes wide open, her skin unnaturally pale. No blood marred her body, but the Shadows killed without tearing skin or leaving gaping wounds. Their death was more subtle, and more horrific. Colin knew. He’d nearly experienced that death himself. If it hadn’t been for the Faelehgre …

He stood, shoved aside that memory as well, and moved on to the next body. A man this time, without a mark on him
but dead nonetheless. His sword was drawn, as if he’d tried to protect the girl, but it lay useless in the grass beside him. Colin hesitated over this man—­so much like his father—­then continued on, moving from body to body. Men, women, a few children—­they were all dead, left as they had fallen. He circled from wagon to wagon toward the center, where the Faelehgre’s light burned hideously bright, his chest tightening the closer he came. Horses, dogs, goats—­everything living had fallen. The wagon train had had time to react—­the typically scattered wagons drawn close for defense—­but the travelers had all died nonetheless. Caught out in the open, they had possessed nothing that could have stopped the Shadows. Only one thing could have helped this close to the forest, this far from Alvritshai lands: the Faelehgre. And the one Faelehgre that had arrived had come too late.

Colin halted in the center of the death, where the pure white light of the Faelehgre shone at the heart of the shimmering folds of darkness of a Shadow. The body of a woman lay beneath them, curled protectively around a young boy, maybe five years old. Her face was buried in the crook of her arm, her tears of terror still wet on her cheeks. The night was too cool for them to evaporate.

The Shadow had been rising upward from its feast, the life-­force drained from both the woman and the child, when the Faelehgre caught it. The anger the light had felt over the deaths still pulsed throughout the scene. It might have been able to repulse the attack on its own—­it would have depended on how many of the Shadows had attacked, how well they were organized—­but from what Colin could see, it hadn’t. Its anger had been too great. It had sped between the wagon and shot to the heart of the Shadow as it rose, had pierced it in its fury, had killed it … and killed itself in the process.

Colin lowered his staff. He reached out a hand to touch
the light at the heart of the Shadow, but halted. Even with time slowed he could feel the coldness of the folds of darkness that made up the Shadow. He wondered briefly if he’d known this particular Faelehgre, suspected he had.

He let his arm fall back to his side. There was nothing that could be done here. The pulsing light of the Faelehgre would slowly absorb the darkness of the Shadow and then vanish. The wagon travelers were dead, and there were too many for him to bury or burn. Not if he was to make Caercaern before dawn. And his purpose in the Alvritshai city was to prevent attacks such as these, to protect the Alvritshai, the dwarren, and the humans from the Shadows. He needed to keep moving.

Gripping his staff tightly, binding his grief and sorrow and hatred close—­a hatred that had survived undamped for over a hundred years—­he struck out northward.

Caercaern and the lords of the Alvritshai waited.

Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony outside his House rooms in Caercaern and stared out at the lightening horizon as dawn approached. Spread out on the stone terraces beneath him, the city had begun to come to life. The majority of Caercaern lay on these terraces, behind the stone walls of the fortress, although there were more rooms and halls carved out of the depths of the mountain behind him. Thousands of tunnels and hundreds of rooms, leading all the way through the Hauttaeren to the northern wastes, all abandoned.

Now, the Alvritshai had spread out onto the hills and valleys below, the forested peaks beginning to emerge into the light, covered in thick mist. The terraces of Caercaern proper weren’t hidden, though, and he could see people beginning to fill the streets: errand boys racing from level to level; the White Phalanx changing shift; bakers and tavern
keepers and merchants beginning to open shops or carting wares up to the wide plazas and open markets. He could see the round Hall of the Evant in the central marketplace, its thick colonnades shadowing the main building within. The stone obelisks of the Order of Aielan’s temple rose into the graying light. And if he turned, he could see the rising levels of the main tower, where the Tamaell resided with his ruling House, the mountains of the Hauttaeren behind it, streams and falls cascading down its stone face, runoff from the snows that covered the peaks year round. The mountain range cut a jagged swath east and west, keeping the snows and the glacial drifts that had driven the Alvritshai southward locked in the north. But Aeren didn’t turn to gaze along the mountains and their white peaks. They represented the past. He preferred to look out toward the future, toward the dense forests, valleys, and hills that stretched from here to the southern plains. Even now, he could see the spires and tiled roofs of buildings jutting up from the mists, emerging as the light increased.

The temple of the Order of Aielan began to chime utiern and Aeren glanced toward the east, where a thin arc of reddish-­gold sun had slid above the horizon. Dawn.

He grunted and drew in a long, deep breath, tasted the chill bite of the coming winter, frigid against his tongue, then exhaled in an extended sigh as he heard footsteps behind him.

Arms wrapped around his waist and a chin rested against his shoulder. He drew in the scent of jasmine as his hands enfolded those at his waist, the body behind pressing up against his back.

“You should not be seen here, with me,” he said. The words could have been a slap in the face—­they had been, the first time he spoke them—­but the tone had changed over time. Now they throbbed with humor, with the memory of that first unintentional slight.

“I know,” the voice responded, the woman’s breath tickling his ear and sending a tingling shiver down his neck and side. She pulled him tighter against her. “But you’ll be departing for Rhyssal House lands in another few days, and I will be forced to remain here, alone. I’ll take the risk, to be with you a few moments longer.”

“And I’ll be less alone in Rhyssal than you will be here?”

She snorted and pushed back slightly, Aeren taking the opportunity to turn around within the confines of her arms so he could face her.

Moiran, former Tamaea of the Alvritshai, wife of Fedorem and mother of the current Tamaell, Thaedoren, shook her head. “You will have Eraeth there to keep you company, as you always have.”

“Eraeth is my Protector, so he does not count. You have Thaedoren.”

Moiran’s gray eyes narrowed. “He is my son, and Tamaell besides. He has no time for his mother.”

“He listens to you more than you know. I’ve seen it in the Evant.”

“He listens only when it suits him, especially regarding the Evant. And if the lords find out about us—­”

Aeren silenced her with a firm, lingering kiss.

As he drew back, a reserved reply of unconcern ready, someone said, “If they find out, they’ll be overjoyed, I’m certain. At least, most of them.”

Moiran’s arms slid away instantly and she stepped back from Aeren, both of them straightening, the formality that cloaked all Alvritshai—­that formed the basis of their society—­sliding back into place instinctively. Moiran clasped her hands and brought them to rest before her, even as her head rose to face the intruder, her eyes flashing with the authority of the Tamaea, an authority she ostensibly no longer wielded. Aeren simply let his arms fall to his sides, although he glowered into the weak shadows at the
back of the balcony where he could barely make out the figure resting in one of the chairs tucked away beside the doorway.

“How long have you been there, Shaeveran?” he demanded.

Colin shifted forward, leaning into the light so that Moiran could see him. The brittle stiffness in her shoulders relaxed, although it did not completely vanish. The Alvritshai did not share their private lives with anyone. Not even old friends.

Colin nodded toward Moiran, then turned his attention to Aeren. “Since before you arrived. I know you enjoy the dawn.” His voice hardened. “We have much to discuss before the Evant meets.”

Moiran smiled, the expression tight with regret and understanding. Aeren had seen the smile often. She’d been Tamaea for far too long to protest when the Evant intruded on her personal life.

“I should return to my chambers,” she said formally, nodding toward Colin, then Aeren, refraining from any form of affection although Aeren could see the impulse in her eyes.

When she’d left, Colin caught Aeren’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been forty years since Fedorem’s death,” Aeren said defensively.

“And Thaedoren? How is he taking it?”

Aeren hesitated. “He did not take it well at first, but it was impossible to keep it from him. The White Phalanx escort her everywhere after all, and they report to the Tamaell. Once he calmed down, an understanding was reached, more from Moiran’s influence on him than my own. We have his blessing, his support, as long as we keep it from the Evant until the time is right for an official announcement.”

“You don’t think those in the Evant already know?”

“The Alvritshai keep their private lives … private.” He shot a warning glance toward Colin, who shrugged.

“Your private life is not my concern, although this may help my cause more than you know. If you are already allied with Thaedoren, if it is on the verge of a blood-­tie—­”

The loud thud of bootfalls sounded from the inner room and three Phalanx guardsmen led by Eraeth burst through the doorway, their cattan blades brandished. They halted abruptly as they saw Aeren standing at the balcony’s edge.

“The Tamaea-­rhen claimed—­” Eraeth began, but spun, straightening into a fighting stance even as his blade settled dead center on Colin’s chest. The other guards reacted as quickly, Aeren noted with approval.

A deathly silence hung over the crisp dawn air, four swords hanging motionless.

Then Eraeth’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Colin smiled. “It’s been a long time, Eraeth.”

The tension held a moment longer, filled with emotions and things left unsaid. Aeren could sense the strange bond his Protector and Shaeveran shared in that tension, so rigid and carefully controlled, filled with sorrow and misplaced mistrust and an unspoken respect.

Eraeth finally lowered his sword with a grimace. With a curt command, the other three guardsmen lowered their weapons as well, then departed. Eraeth remained behind, after a short glance and confirming nod from Aeren, moving into a guardsman’s position near the door.