Leaves of Flame (42 page)

But the more he thought about whether it could affect the Trees, the more uneasy he felt.

He needed to see the Summer Tree, needed to touch it as he’d done with the Winter Tree in Caercaern.

They heard the Confluence before they saw it, a slow roar beginning to build beneath the sound of the gaezels’ hooves against the stone of the tunnel. The roar grew, until it thundered through the tunnel, shuddering against Colin’s skin and shivering deeper in his bones. When the noise had reached an unbearable pitch, the tunnel suddenly ended.

Colin had been to the Confluence before, but the immense cavern still took his breath away as the dwarren army spilled out of the corridor and down the short ramp to the main floor. To the north, cascades of water fell from the heights of the rock wall, over a hundred streams and rivers converging on this one location, spilling down from the rock watershed in a torrent. Mist rose from the falls, glowing with the pale green luminescence of the moss and algae that coated the damp, exposed rock around them and from the soft red light coming from the center of the chamber. There, the immense stone floor fell away in two short circular tiers to a red-­tinged lake—­the Sacred Waters of the dwarren. The roar of the churning water was deafening, but as the column of dwarren raced across the vast open area, a trick of the architecture of the cavern deadened it to a bearable level.

Colin felt dwarfed by the immensity of the room—­if it
could be called a room. Massive arches, thicker than the boles of the most ancient trees he’d seen in the heart of the Ostraell, curved up from the sides of the cavern, terminating in a huge circle of stone that formed the apex of the dome. Chunks of that stone had crumbled and fallen away over time, the gaps in the flowing architecture glaring, but the structure had withstood the ages well.

To the right of the massive falls, the dwarren had carved out rooms between the pillars and arches. Hundreds of dwarren were gathered along the massive wall and the tiers that led up to its base, yet beneath them, on the floor that surrounded the lake, there were thousands more. Tents riddled the area, dwarren in the armor of Riders milling about, their gaezels corralled off to one side. Others wove among the groups, dressed in the everyday garb of the dwarren, distributing food and blankets. It appeared that another group had arrived shortly before them, their gaezels only now being taken to the main stabling area. The leaders of that group were greeting the Cochen and the Archon, the head shaman easy to pick out of the crowd due to his massive feather headdress.

Colin scanned the bed of activity, taking it all in as the column of dwarren headed directly toward the Cochen and Archon, drums announcing their arrival, but his attention shifted almost immediately to the right of the falls, toward the Summer Tree. It had been planted in the middle of the tiers, the shaft of the seedling he’d brought slammed down into the stone of the cavern’s floor much as he had done with the Winter Tree’s seed in the marketplace in Caercaern. Its roots had cracked the stone as they burrowed and climbed down the tiers, the bole of the tree shooting skyward, although there was no sky for it to find. It had branched almost immediately, spreading outward rather than into the heights, more rounded than the Winter Tree, like a sycamore or oak. Its leaves were the darkened green
of summer, as wide and flat as those of the Winter Tree, but not rounded. These leaves came in groups of three and like the oak were serrated. They rippled in a breeze generated by the falls, revealing the silvered undersides in flashes, like reflected sunlight on water.

Colin searched for signs that the Tree was failing, but saw nothing. Beneath the branches, nestled within the giant root system that trailed all the way down to the Confluence, he could see where the dwarren had set lanterns in stone bowls. The light was reflected from the walls of the cavern, providing more illumination than could have been generated solely by the lanterns. A few of the dwarren shamans sat among the roots, kneeling in contemplation or prayer, or tending to the Tree’s needs.

A shout tore Colin’s attention back to the Riders. The column slowed as the three clan chiefs and the three head shamans pulled away to meet with the Cochen and Archon. Colin searched the dwarren already encamped on the tiers, seeking out clan symbols, trying to gauge how many of the clans had already arrived.

He was shocked at how many dwarren had gathered.

“There are approximately ten thousand dwarren in the encampment,” Eraeth said.

“And there are two clans not represented,” Colin added. “I see no groups of Riders from Painted Sands or Broken Waters.”

“Which means what?” Siobhaen asked. The awe of seeing the Confluence for the first time had not yet faded from her face.

“It means that there will be more dwarren joining us shortly. And that I may have time to check the Summer Tree before the true Gathering begins.” He glanced back toward the Tree, distracted.

“Quotl is attempting to catch your attention,” Eraeth said.

Colin swung around to find the elder head shaman frowning in his direction. He nodded toward Colin.

Colin sighed. He wanted to know what had caused the dwarren to call such a large Gathering, but the need to verify that the Summer Tree still held was more pressing. “Follow me.”

He nudged his horse forward, the ranks of dwarren parting for him and the two Alvritshai. As they reached the front of the column, a drum sounded and the entire group broke, scattering toward an empty section of the encampment, bags and pouches already being removed from their gaezels. Dwarren rushed forward to seize the animals’ reins and lead them off to be scrubbed down, combed, and fed.

The Cochen and Archon quieted as Colin and the Alvritshai drew close and dismounted, all of the dwarren considering them with narrowed eyes and taut faces. The Cochen had scars down one side of his face, emphasized by the angle of the chains that draped from the ring in his nose to his ear. Glancing at the intricate beading of his beard, Colin could tell it came from surviving a lion attack when he was younger. The scars made him appear more dangerous and brutal than the other dwarren clan chiefs, which was likely why he’d been chosen as the Cochen.

The Archon appeared older than Quotl, thin and frail in comparison to the Cochen’s brusque stature, although Colin could sense the power the Archon commanded. He carried the scepter of the shamans, resting his weight upon it like a walking stick. He inclined his head toward Colin, but cast a glare at Eraeth and Siobhaen.

“Clan Chief Oraju of the Red Sea, Cochen of this Gathering, and Archon Kimannen of Claw Lake,” Quotl said as introduction. “I present the Shadowed One, and his two ­Alvritshai companions.”

“You have come to warn us,” the Archon said, “but you are too late. It has already begun.”

Oraju glanced toward the rest of the clan chiefs and shamans, but answered as if the Archon had not spoken. “We are honored to have you here for this Gathering, Shadowed One. I hope that you will help us decide the right course of action.”

The Archon snorted. “Our actions have already been decided, by Ilacqua and the actions of the elloktu! We must act now, before it is too late!”

The clan chiefs shifted awkwardly, not daring to look at the Archon, but Quotl met Colin’s gaze. “The Archon speaks truly. Ilacqua will guide us through this Turning, as he has through all of the Turnings before.” He turned to the Cochen. “Are we ready to call the Gathering?”

Oraju shook his head. “We wait for Clan Chief Asazi, of Broken Waters.”

“What of Painted Sands?” Colin interrupted. “I don’t see their Riders here.”

Oraju made a sound deep in his chest. “Clan Chief Corranu cannot attend the Gathering. It is news from Painted Sands that has caused the Gathering in the first place. But that should be discussed once we have all gathered beneath the eye of Ilacqua. Clan Chief Asazi and the rest of the Broken Waters Riders should be arriving shortly. We will Gather tonight.” He turned toward the Archon. “Archon Kimannen, prepare the keeva.”

The Archon nodded and the cluster of clan chiefs and shamans scattered, the Cochen heading off toward the cliff dwellings, Tarramic and the rest of the clan chiefs toward the encampments to one side. The shamans trailed after Kimannen.

Quotl remained behind, turning to Colin as soon as the others had moved beyond hearing. “The Cochen did not tell us everything—­he’ll explain why the Gathering was called tonight—­but he did say that there is a force gathering in the Thalloran Wastelands near the edge of Painted Sands land.
Corranu has sent word of what he has seen, and he has gathered his Riders to meet this army.”

“Which army?” Eraeth said. “No one lives in the wasteland to the east.”

Quotl shook his head, lips a thin line. “The Cochen did not say.”

“And what of the occumaen—­the Eyes of Septimic? Did he mention those or the unnatural storms caused by the unbalancing of the Wells?”

“He mentioned neither.”

“I have news on both, but I need to touch the Summer Tree to verify why the Wells were unbalanced.”

Quotl pursed his lips in consternation and flicked a glance toward the retreating Archon. “Matters regarding the Summer Tree are sent to the Archon, and he has no respect for you or what you have done for us. I doubt he will let you near the Tree.”

Colin felt a moment of annoyance, followed by defiance. The Archon could not stop him from seeking out the Tree. He was Shaeveran, the Shadowed One.

But then Quotl turned back, a hint of a wicked smile in his aged eyes. “However, I think the Archon will be busy at the keeva. Come. I will escort you to the Tree.”

“Won’t you be needed to prepare the keeva?” Eraeth asked.

Quotl chuckled. “The Archon and I have never seen eye to eye. He will not miss my presence.”

The head shaman motioned for a few of the dwarren to take the horses, the lucky few approaching the animals with trepidation. As they led the animals away, three dwarren to each horse, Quotl headed around the edge of the Sacred Waters toward the Summer Tree. All three non-­dwarren traded glances, then scrambled to keep up.

“He moves fast,” Eraeth grumbled, “for one of the dwarren.”

They skirted the lake, crossing over numerous bridges where the water was being channeled and siphoned off to form smaller pools for dwarren use. At one such bridge, its arch higher than many of the others, Siobhaen gasped and pointed down toward the center of the lake, moving to the railing at the edge.

“There’s something in the Blood of Aielan,” she said, “something in the water’s depths.”

Eraeth shot Colin a questioning gaze, but when he didn’t answer, the Protector moved to the railing beside Siobhaen. They both stared at the depths for a long moment. Colin moved up behind them.

“It looks like some kind of reddish light,” Siobhaen said. “As if there were a fire under the water.”

“No.” Eraeth shook his head. “There are multiple rings of fire, all of them swinging around a central sphere, some faster than others. The sphere in the center is what’s glowing.”

“There is another in Andover,” Colin said. “They call it the Rose. Its discovery was what caused the Feud that drove my family and the rest of the Andovan refugees across the Arduon here, to Wrath Suvane. The power struggle there for the Rose ripped the Andovan Court apart, and nearly destroyed all of its Families. It also allowed the Proprietors of the settlements on the coast—­towns like Portstown—­the chance to break free from Andover and form the Provinces. If it hadn’t been for the Rose, and the Accord with the Alvritshai and dwarren, the Proprietors would never have been able to keep Andover at bay. Their attentions would have been split.

“This Rose has been the heart of the dwarren religion for as long as the dwarren can remember. It is what gives the waters of the Confluence their reddish tinge, and imbues it with the healing powers that it is known for.”

Eraeth crossed his arms over his chest. “This is what the
sons and daughters of the Alvritshai lords used to search for during their Trials, what Aeren was searching for when he first met you and your wagon train crossing the plains: the Blood of Aielan.”

“Yes.”

“You two are the first Alvritshai to be allowed to see the Sacred Waters,” Quotl said from behind them. “You should feel honored.”

Eraeth bowed his head. “It is an honor.”

Quotl nodded in acknowledgment. “We should hurry if you wish to touch the Summer Tree before the Gathering,” he said to Colin, then moved on.

Colin stepped up to the railing and looked down through the depths at the Rose, the rings of fire rotating beneath the churning surface, broken and indistinct through the waves.

“It’s beautiful,” Siobhaen murmured, “almost as beautiful as Aielan’s Light beneath Caercaern.”

Colin said nothing, thinking of his family, the memories dredged up by his thoughts of Andover and the Provinces. He had kept himself distant from his own kind, but with what was happening now—­with the Seasonal Trees and the Wells—­he was beginning to think that his isolation from them had been a mistake. They might need the Provinces’ help before this was done; they might need Andover’s, even though the relationship between the Provinces and Andover was still strained.

Troubled, he turned away to follow Quotl.

They rounded the edge of the lake quickly, halted only once more when a sudden flurry of drums sounded from the far side of the dome. Quotl listened attentively, but merely shook his head when questioned by Colin. As they drew nearer to the Tree, some of the shamans Colin had seen meditating beneath its branches noticed them, stirring from their positions to come out to meet them. Their stances were hostile and protective until they recognized Quotl.
Even then, a few of the younger shamans glared at the Alvritshai and Colin, clearly ready to protest.

Quotl conferred with a slightly older dwarren who stepped to the fore of the group, the leader’s gaze flickering toward Colin and the others as they spoke. Then the dwarren stepped forward and bowed slightly toward Colin.

“Shadowed One,” he murmured, head still lowered. “It is an honor to meet you. I am one of the Keepers, as are those gathered behind me.”