“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 theback 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.
Aeren shifted away from the balcony’s edge toward Colin. “What brings you to Caercaern, in need of the Evant? You haven’t been here in nearly thirty years. Is it about the Wells? The Shadows and the Wraiths? Have you managed to stop them?”
Colin stood, leaning on his staff. He appeared older than when Aeren had seen him last, but Aeren knew he could change his age at will. He wondered why Colin had chosen age over youth in this instance, what advantage it gave him.
“We both know that, even with the help of the Faelehgre, our chances of stopping the Wraiths from awakening the Wells would be … difficult. I’ve discovered that perhaps it shouldn’t be done at all.”
“So the Wraiths and the Shadows will be allowed to run free, to feed off of our people at will?” Eraeth couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. Aeren tensed as well, thinking of all of the Alvritshai who had already died in their attempts to keep the Shadows from their lands.
Colin bowed his head slightly. “I have come up with another option. But it will require the help of the Order of Aielan.”
Aeren straightened. “Lotaern has used the Order to gain power within the Evant, more power than I am comfortable with at the moment. He has used the threat of the Shadows and the Wraiths, and the fears of the lords and the Alvritshai, to consolidate his control. The Order has essentially risen to the level of a House. I do not think that allowing him control over something more—”
“I think you’ll find that this may limit his control, rather than extend it. At least regarding the Shadows and the Wraiths. I cannot say how it will affect his political power within the Evant. That is … an Alvritshai concern.”
Aeren frowned. “What is this other option?”
Colin’s free hand moved to the satchel he carried at his side. “A way to counter the effects of the awakened Wells, to limit the range of the Shadows … and the Wraiths to an extent. A way to protect the Alvritshai from their threat.”
Aeren stared at the satchel. He found it hard to believe that something that could save the Alvritshai from the Shadows and the Wraiths could be contained in such a small case.
He caught Colin’s gaze. “How?”
Colin raised his head enough he could see through the heavy folds of his hood as he, Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest of the Rhyssal House Phalanx passed through the massive wooden doors of the inner chamber of the great Hall at the center of Caercaern’s widest marketplace. He could see little through the opening of the cowl, had entirely missed the thick colonnades of the Hall and the magnificent stone carvings on the outside walls depicting Alvritshai in their daily labors and religious observances. But the interior was as grand. The Tamaell’s platform stood on the far side of a wide area surrounded by circular arrays of desks and seats and tiered stairs leading down to a central oval. Alvritshai lords and their attendant guards, clerks, and aides filled the stairs, their conversations echoing loudly in the huge vaulted ceiling overhead. The desks were draped in thick folds of cloth of various colors, representing each of the Houses of the Evant, those colors mirrored in the banners arrayed against the rounded walls of the chamber and in the formal dress of everyone present.
Eraeth and Aeren led the Rhyssal House party down the stairs to the deep-blue-and-red-shrouded desk. Colin felt the eyes of the attendant lords register Aeren’s arrival … and then fall on the shrouded figure carrying a staff and satchel beh
ind him. Beneath the folds of the cowl, he heard the sudden lull in conversation, saw the pinched frowns that flashed briefly across faces before gazes shot toward Aeren, toward the empty throne that graced the Tamaell’s platform, then to their fellow lords to gauge reactions. Conversations resumed as Aeren reached his own seat and settled in, motioning Colin to a place on his left, Eraeth taking up position on his right. A flurry of activity ensued, as pages were sent to relay messages throughout the room.
Colin glanced around, taking note of the lords he recognized and a few he didn’t. The fallout from Lord Khalaek’s betrayal and murder of Tamaell Fedorem had been swift, the declaration that House Duvoraen had fallen occurring on the battlefield at the Escarpment after Khalaek had been banished and handed over to King Stephan and subsequently executed. House Uslaen had risen in its place, led by Lord Saetor, who stood near his white-and-gold-shrouded desk, back rigid. He looked uncomfortable among his fellow lords, even after forty years. Younger, and raised and trained to be part of the Phalanx, his ascension into the Evant had been unexpected, an honor placed upon him for his part in the battle at the Escarpment and his handling of Lord Khalaek’s forces after the lord had been removed and his Phalanx placed under Saetor’s command. The transition hadn’t been entirely smooth—there were those loyal to Khalaek who had abandoned the House as Saetor seized control—but after Khalaek’s betrayal had been exposed, backed by both Thaedoren and Lotaern’s word, it had gone as smoothly as could be expected.
Saetor watched Colin intently, ignoring the flurry of messages that had accumulated on his desk. He was so focused that Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked away, even though he knew Saetor could not see beneath his cowl.
His gaze fell on the other unknown lord, Orraen Licaeta, the son of Vaersoom, who had ascended in his father’s place as the Lord of House Licaeta soon after the Escarpment, when Vaersoom had succumbed to the wounds received during the battle. Orraen was the firstborn and, unlike Aeren, had been trained to take his father’s place since the day he was born. Aeren’s elder brother had been groomed for the role Aeren now held. When he had been killed over the course of the war for the plains, Aeren had been forced to leave his studies as acolyte in the Order of Aielan and take control of his House.
Orraen reminded Colin of Khalaek. His posture was relaxed, his genial smile unforced as he moved among the gathering of the Evant, talking to lords and aides and, on occasion, their Phalanx guardsmen. Yet the hardness around his eyes never abated, and his actions—every gesture, every movement—were far too smooth, too slick and practiced. He appeared to have dismissed Colin, his back turned toward Aeren as he conversed with Lord Jydell, even laughing at something his fellow lord said. Jydell cast Aeren a contemplative look, and appeared at ease, but the way one hand twisted the sleeve of his shirt and his occasional glance toward Colin’s shrouded figure revealed his concern.
Behind Orraen and Jydell, a few levels up the stairs, stood Lotaern, Chosen of the Order of Aielan. As if sensing Colin’s gaze, even from beneath the hood, the Chosen nodded in acknowledgment, as if he knew who hid behind the cowl. And perhaps he did.
Before Colin had a chance to assess the rest of the lords, members of the White Phalanx filed into the room. Four appeared on the platform itself, arranging themselves around the main throne and the two smaller thrones set a pace back to either side. The rest filed in beneath the platform, carrying standards or spears, moving slowly, with formal, deliberate steps. The surrounding lords and their entourages began filtering toward their seats, conversations falling silent.
The White Phalanx halted, standing stock-still, waiting until the room had quieted before the two carrying the spears raised them and pounded their metal bases into the marble floor. The sound cracked through the chamber, and Colin started, even though he’d been expecting it. The procedure for the Tamaell’s arrival had changed subtly since Colin had last attended the Evant, but the feel of the chamber—the simmering tension of predator and prey—was the same.
“Tamaell Thaedoren Ormae Resue,” one of the standard-bearers announced.
Everyone in attendance stood as Thaedoren emerged onto the platform, followed by his mother, Moiran, and his brother, Daedelan. Colin’s eyebrows rose. Both Thaedoren and Daedelan were dressed in the full regalia of the White Phalanx, including bracers on their arms and armor beneath the silky red-and-white folds of their House shirts. Daedelan had darker hair than Thaedoren, like his mother’s, but even from this distance Colin could see they both had their father’s green eyes. Both were tall and solidly built, although Daedelan was obviously younger, even with his face set in a serious expression. Moiran’s gaze swept the room, lingering on no one, not even Aeren, but seeing all. She wore a dress that hinted at armor, the folds and cut more severe and serious than usual. No one spoke, but a rustle eased around the room as the rest noticed as well. Eraeth shot Aeren a questioning look, but Aeren merely shrugged.
Obviously, Thaedoren had prepared since they’d met with him that morning.
“Be seated,” Thaedoren said, but remained standing as the chamber filled with the sounds of rustling cloth. Moiran and Daedelan took the two thrones behind him.
When everyone had settled, Thaedoren bowed his head slightly. “We have reached the end of another session of the Evant. I know that you are all looking forward to returning to your House lands in the next few weeks to see to their preparation for winter, and you will be able to depart as planned. But there is one last issue—one of extreme importance—that must be discussed before we bring the Evant to a close.” Thaedoren turned toward Aeren and nodded respectfully. “Lord Aeren.” He settled into the seat of his throne as Aeren rose.
Aeren hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts, then moved out from behind the desk and claimed the oval floor beneath the platform. He caught each lord with a penetrating gaze before he spoke. No one sneered or scowled as they had during the first meeting of the Evant Colin had attended when Aeren had tried to speak.
Aeren’s House had risen since the death of Fedorem and the battle at the Escarpment. And once his relationship with Moiran was revealed and a blood-tie established with the Tamaell, with Thaedoren …
Colin stirred in his seat. Even he, an outsider, a human, realized the power over the Evant that Aeren would wield then.
“The sukrael and the Wraiths,” Aeren began. His voice was soft, but everyone in the chamber stirred. “We have all suffered from their attacks since before the Escarpment, since before Khalaek’s betrayal of our people to the Wraith called Walter. Those attacks continue to plague us, the sukrael randomly taking lives within each of our Houses, attacking villages and towns, caravans and traders, sometimes destroying every living thing within a wide radius, every man, woman, child, and animal, their lives drained away, their bodies left where they fell. They ravage our lands, spreading out from the Ostraell forests as their power grows, as the Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell that bind the Shadows. Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, has scoured the Scripts and used its knowledge of these creatures to train his warriors of the Flame to defend against them, but as we have all seen, those defenses are minimal.”
At this, Lotaern rose in indignation. “The Order of the Flame has done everything in its power to stop these creatures! If not for the Flame, their attacks on Lord Saetor’s lands would have been disastrous! They would have decimated the city of Touvaris at the edge of the Ostraell!”
Grumbles of agreement shot through the chamber, but Aeren overrode them all. “And what is the situation now?” he demanded. “The Order of the Flame has a permanent presence in Touvaris. They patrol its borders with Saetor’s Phalanx, using their powers and the Flames of Aielan to keep the sukrael at bay.”
“And the sukrael are at bay.”
“Barely. All that you have achieved is protection of one land at the sacrifice of another. The sukrael don’t care about land or buildings or crops. They care only for life. Th
ey shifted their attention elsewhere, so while Touvaris lies protected by the Flame, they attack House Redlien, or Licaeta, or roam out onto the dwarren plains attacking our trade routes. And as their power grows, as their Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell and expand their territory, the Order of the Flame is spread thinner and thinner and becomes less and less effective. You have already split the force to cover Licaeta’s lands, those closest to the Ostraell. I know you have been discussing the use of the Flame in Lord Jydell’s lands. How many warriors do you have in the Order, Chosen? Are there enough to cover all of the Houses, all of the Alvritshai borders?”
Lotaern’s jaw worked for a long moment, his eyes blazing with anger, back stiff. “No,” he finally said, the word low and grudging. “More warriors of the Flame are being trained as we speak, but there are not enough to protect all of our lands, all of our people.”
Aeren nodded. “More warriors of the Flame should be trained, because the threat of the sukrael and the Wraiths is real. I meant no disrespect for the Order, and I—along with every lord present—am grateful for the protection that the Flame has provided from that threat so far. But we must be realistic. The protection the Flame offers will not be enough to cover us all. Not if the sukrael continue to grow in power and the lands they can hunt expand. We need something more. We need something stronger.”
“What?” Lord Saetor demanded, standing abruptly, one hand pressed forward onto his desk. “We have done everything within our power. What more do you propose we do?”
Colin rose, even as Aeren turned toward him. Every gaze settled on him as he moved forward, Aeren falling back as he took the center. He moved slowly, the butt of his staff thumping softly onto the marble floor. Tension escalated as he positioned himself before the Tamaell’s platform. A murmur ran through the room, and from the corner of his eye he saw Saetor shove back from his desk. He couldn’t see Lotaern, but he knew the Chosen well enough he could imagine the frown that darkened his face. He had wanted to include Lotaern in the meeting with the Tamaell, to plan how they would present the proposal, but Aeren—and later, Thaedoren—had felt it better that they catch him unaware. They didn’t want to give him the opportunity to turn this proposal to the Order’s advantage. And after what he’d seen and heard since his return, he found he agreed with their fears. The Order had gained in power, had grown, had created its own Phalanx with the Flame. He could feel the weight of its presence even here, not just in Lotaern’s inclusion in the Evant, but in how the Flame had been used to infiltrate the Phalanx of at least two of the Houses. Those members of the Flame would have influence on the caitans of the Phalanx they were there to help, and those caitans could influence their lords.
Leaves of Flame Page 2