Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

  Eraeth scowled and twisted the end of the spit viciously. Fat sizzled in the fire beneath.

  “Are you certain it’s Walter?” Siobhaen asked.

  “It must be. I know of no one else who would even attempt such a thing.”

  The small group considered his words in silence, while the rest of the rabbit was cleaned and readied for the spit.

  Finally, Aeren said, “Then we must go east, to see what Walter and the Wraiths are trying to accomplish. And to stop them.”

  Colin was already shaking his head. “No. I can’t allow it. Moiran will not allow it.”

  Aeren stiffened where he sat. “Moiran does not decide the fate of the Rhyssal House, or its lord.”

  Colin smiled. “I’m certain she’d disagree. But it doesn’t matter. I need you in Caercaern, watching Lotaern. The knife may be unimportant, but whatever Lotaern intends to do with it isn’t. You need to remain behind to contend with him.”

  “So you intend to travel east on your own?” Eraeth asked.

  “If necessary.” As Eraeth drew breath to argue, he added, “But no. What Walter has done has happened on the edges of dwarren lands, and whatever he intends to do, it will affect the dwarren first. I intend to seek the dwarren’s help.”

  Aeren frowned. “You would trust the dwarren over the Alvritshai, over me?”

  “Not over you or Eraeth or Moiran. But over Lotaern and most of the Lords of the Evant… yes. The dwarren have accepted me since the Escarpment, and in many respects they are better equipped to deal with the Shadows and the Wraiths. Their shamans are powerful.”

  “So is the Order, so are the acolytes,” Siobhaen added defensively.

  Colin frowned at her, long enough that her stiffness faltered. “Perhaps. But the dwarren have made a ritual of hunting the Shadows and the Wraiths, of killing them. They form war parties called trettarus to hunt them down. If I am going to search the Wraiths out, I’d rather have the shaman-­blessed dwarren warriors at my side.”

  Siobhaen appeared stung by the mild rebuke, her eyes narrowing in anger.

  “You can’t travel to them alone,” Aeren said. “Not in your condition. What about the humans? They have lands close to the east as well. You should contact them, see if they are willing to help.”

  Colin snorted in disdain. “Those in the Provinces would not help me. I am nothing but a legend to them. No one who remembers me from the Escarpment is still alive, and those in power now are too caught up in the politics between the old continent and the new. The Feud may have ended, and the Provinces freed from the Court and the Families back home, but there are still ties binding them together. I doubt King Justinian would recognize me if I showed up in his Court, let alone trust me enough to give me aid.”

  “I will accompany you to the dwarren lands, and beyond.”

  Siobhaen’s announcement shocked them all, Aeren rocking back where he sat as if he’d been pushed, Eraeth merely going still with a suspicious frown.

  “I thought you’d want to return to the Sanctuary,” Colin said carefully.

  “After defying Vaeren? I’m not certain what kind of welcome I would get.”

  “You don’t answer to Vaeren,” Eraeth said tightly. “You answer to the Chosen.”

  “But Lotaern listens to Vaeren, more so than most.” Siobhaen met Eraeth’s glare and didn’t flinch.

  Aeren didn’t trust her either, not after what had happened with Vaeren, and not after what he’d seen Siobhaen do in the temples as they made their way northward, but he said nothing when Colin said, “Very well.”

  But he intended to have words with Colin when neither Siobhaen nor Eraeth would overhear. He didn’t like how she’d inserted herself into the group, didn’t like how intrusive it felt, no matter that she’d stayed to protect them from the sukrael. He had the entire trip back to his House lands to convince Colin to leave her behind, and to accept a contingent of Rhyssal House guards as well.

  “It may be moot,” Eraeth muttered, his voice nearly a growl. “We may catch up to Vaeren and the others before we reach Gaurraenan’s halls.”

  Siobhaen glanced away abruptly, but it was Colin who answered, taking one of the spits from the fire, the rabbit glistening in the light, the meat charred. The smell had permeated the area and Aeren’s stomach rumbled. Meals had been lean the last few days as they awaited Eraeth’s return.

  “We won’t run into the other members of the Flame,” Colin said succinctly, then tore into the meat, hissing as the hot fat seared his fingers. He still stuffed a piece of the rabbit into his mouth.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Vaeren isn’t headed back to Gaurraenan’s halls. He’s headed to the chambers beneath the mountains behind Caercaern. Isn’t he, Siobhaen?”

  She sat completely still, eyes narrowed at Colin, who ignored her, focusing on his meal. Hiroun had taken his own rabbit and was eating it as well, while Eraeth had rescued both his own and Aeren’s from the flames.

  Finally, Siobhaen murmured, “That is true.”

  Perhaps he wouldn’t need to warn Colin about trusting Siobhaen after all.

  “Are we returning the same way, or are we risking Gaurraenan’s halls again?”

  “I doubt that Lotaern would allow us entrance through the corridors beneath Caercaern. Tamaell Theadoren would demand it, but we have no way of contacting him to make the Chosen open the doorway. We’ll have to risk returning though the tunnel and pass.” Colin glanced up. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on being conscious when we pass through the halls.”

  “Then how are you going to make it through the tunnels?” Eraeth asked.

  Colin grinned around a mouthful of greasy rabbit. “I expect you to carry me.”

  Tuvaellis reached up to tug at the cowl that shadowed her face from the sailors, prostitutes, and vagabonds that crowded the wharf and docks along the north end of Corsair. Her hands were gloved, to cover the swirling darkness of the sarenavriell that roiled beneath her skin, but she could not force herself to stoop to hide the difference in her height from the humans on the docks. Her lips pursed in distaste as she glared out at them, scurrying to and fro, laughing raucously or shouting from the ships tied up along the entire length of the northern shore for as far as she could see. She had never been to Corsair, the human capital of the Provinces, but Walter had told her to expect… chaos. He’d smiled as he warned her, but he had not mentioned the squalid stench, the reek of fish and sweat and shit that she’d encountered as she’d made her way down from the more civilized streets and inns closer to the massive walls of the keep beneath the towering spire called the Needle.

  She glanced toward the Needle, careful to keep her face in shadow. Out of all of Corsair, which sprawled from the heights of the cliffs at the mouth of the inlet down across both shores of the wide swath of blue-­black water between, to the river that fed the inlet to the east, the Needle was the most impressive building she had seen. It rivaled some of the Alvritshai’s own masterpieces, even some of those that had been abandoned in the northern wastes. Impossibly thin, reaching to a height that she could not judge against the backdrop of the clouded winter sky, and built of a pale white stone that had weathered into a yellow tinged with pink, she could not fathom how the weakling humans had managed to construct it. At its apex, during storms and at night, a light flared from the blackened windows to warn ships of the rocks beneath the cliffs of the narrow corridor that gave access to the inlet and protected the city from the harshest of the Arduon Ocean’s winter storms. Even now, wind thrashed in the pennants at its height, the clouds streaming eastward above it, although here at the docks everything was calm.

  The palace beneath the Needle was coarse in comparison, a gray stone monstrosity that had been constructed around the base of the lighthouse and had grown over the years without any clear shape or form. Like the rest of the city, Tuvaellis thought, letting her gaze drop to the houses beneath the palace walls, spread across the hill where it sloped down to the waters of the inlet. At le
ast beneath the palace there was some attention to form, the streets laid out in a pattern interrupted only sporadically by a plaza or park or fountain out-­of-­place with the rest of the natural order. But once her eyes reached the ramshackle streets of the commoners bordering the water, both on the north end and the south, all the way to the mouth of the river.…

  “Chaos,” she muttered under her breath and scowled.

  A laborer, carrying a crate across one shoulder, jostled her and her hand fell to the small dagger at her side, hidden beneath her gray cloak. The man barked a harsh, “Out of the way!” as he continued down the dock to a waiting ship. Tuvaellis considered killing him. She could feel the dagger cutting into his throat, could smell the spill of blood, could almost taste it. She’d kill him and be gone before his body hit the dock, and all anyone would see would be the blurred flicker of a figure in a gray cloak.…

  The temptation was nearly too much, but she restrained herself, glanced toward the harsh glow of the sun hidden behind the layer of clouds, then back to the crush of bodies on the dock, searching.

  Her contact was late. Had he been held up in the palace? Would he have sent a runner if he had?

  No. He wouldn’t risk it. He’d come himself or not at all.

  Even as she thought it, she spotted Matthais’ figure among the crowd, working his way toward her. His blond hair was easy to pick out among the mostly darker browns and blacks of the dockworkers, but it was the cut of his cloak—­gray, like hers—­that set him apart. That and his girth. Nearly all of the commoners at the dock were thin, although most had wiry muscle; Matthais was twice their size. Tuvaellis wondered why he had chosen to meet her here, at the docks, when it was so obvious that neither one of them fit in.

  Matthais smiled as he drew closer, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He regarded her with an intensity she found surprising, cold and harsh and much more intelligent than she had expected.

  “Excuse my lateness,” he said as he drew up in front of her, his gaze passing swiftly over the area. They had met at the end of one of the docks on the wharf, the ocean lapping at the supports beneath them, the press of the day workers on all sides. Yet Tuvaellis felt that Matthais’ single glance had picked up every detail around them, from the men and women who plied their wares to the wharf cats that twisted among the commoners’ feet. “King Justinian had business that I could not excuse myself from easily, not without drawing undue attention.”

  “And meeting here, at the wharf, will not draw enough attention?” Tuvaellis asked snidely.

  Matthais grinned. “Not from the men and women who matter. Besides, I was told you needed a discreet ship, sailing for Andover immediately. One whose captain would not question who his passenger was, nor ask any bothersome questions during the passage across the Arduon. Such ships are to be found here.”

  “And you have such a ship?”

  “The Mary Gently, a trading ship set to leave for Trent in Andover at the next tide.”

  Tuvaellis straightened where she stood and scanned the ships within sight, noting the Mary Gently tied to the dock two lengths down. Her lip curled up at its size and shape. Not one of the larger traders, it had only two masts, had not been freshly painted in the last year, and showed some weathering. But its deck was clean and the sails appeared properly stowed. The crew appeared clean as well, more so than some of the ships at berth near it.

  “This was all that was available?” she asked. Crew loaded barrels of what looked like salted fish into the hold as she watched.

  “Unless you wish to risk one of the larger, more conspicuous, traders.”

  She turned at the hint of annoyance in Matthais’ voice. Her eyes narrowed at the arrogance in his eyes. “You would be wise to remember to whom you speak, Councillor.” She tilted her head enough that he would see the black-­marked skin of her chin beneath the cowl.

  Matthais’ jaw clenched in anger, not fear. “And you would be wise to remember that I am the one in a position to influence the King.”

  Tuvaellis lowered her head and wondered if perhaps Matthais had outworn his usefulness here in Corsair. But the plan had progressed too far for him to be replaced. They would never be able to get as close to the King in the time required, and she doubted they would be able to turn anyone else within Justinian’s ranks.

  Besides, Matthais was not her problem. Let Walter deal with him. She was to handle Andover.

  “This will do. When does it depart?”

  “According to the harbormaster, within two hours.”

  “I will need to retrieve my… possessions.”

  “Then do so, quickly. The captain has already been paid. He will care little if you are not aboard when the ship sails.”

  Tuvaellis almost snarled as the councillor spun and began making his way back through the crowd, her hand gripping the handle of the dagger inside the shield of her cloak. She had expected him to help her, or for him to make arrangements. Now it would be up to her.

  She scanned the docks again and picked out a pair of rough-­looking pickpockets she’d noticed earlier. They looked everywhere but at her as she approached, tried to sink back into the wall behind them, blend into the general background. Dressed in little more than rags, she wondered how they had fared that morning. The docks were not the best place for thieves; the dockworkers carried little on them, at least until their shifts were done.

  The younger of the two tried to bolt when she was three steps away, but she caught the focus of the older one by holding up a silver mark in one hand.

  The boy’s eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. The younger boy halted after taking ten steps, but hung back, wary.

  “What you want?” the ruffian asked, sidling to one side, preparing to run.

  Tuvaellis smiled beneath her cowl. “I need help loading a chest aboard a ship.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” The coin, stamped with the crude image of Justinian, was within the ruffian’s reach. All he had to do was snatch it and run. Not that he would make it far.

  She saw the intent in his eyes, saw it die. His head lowered and he looked away guiltily. “Is not worth a silver,” he said.

  “It is to me.”

  He glanced back at her, then toward his friend, who cast him a questioning look.

  He reached for the coin, but Tuvaellis let it slip back into her hand. “After.”

  The ruffian scowled, but motioned toward his companion.

  She led them through the streets without looking back, confident that they followed, although they kept out of her reach and to the sides of the streets, ready to flee at any moment. As they moved, the younger carried on a whispered, fervent conversation with his elder, shaking his head and frowning, but the eldest finally growled and barked a harsh order. The youngest fell silent after that, but kept his eyes locked on Tuvaellis as they moved.

  They reached the inn where she had stayed the night before and she motioned the two up to her room, ignoring the quizzical looks of the innkeeper. A moment later, the two ruffians were hauling the trunk down the stairs, one on each end. It wasn’t a large trunk, perhaps three hands long, two deep and two high, but it was heavy. Tuvaellis carried her own satchel.

  By the time they’d made their way back to the wharf, the two ruffians were cursing the awkward trunk and shooting her scathing glances. She paused at the end of a dock, then found the Mary Gently and halted before the man at the end of its plank. The two boys plunked the trunk down behind her.

  The sailor eyed her, then the two boys. “What do you want?” he asked.

  Tuvaellis straightened slightly and the man’s eyes widened. He drew back, clutching the manifest he held in his hands closer to his chest. His white, wispy hair blew around his head; his beard was scraggly and rough.

  “I am your passenger.”

  He ran a hand over his unshaven face. “There’s no mention of these… boys.”

  “They’re here to deliver the trunk to my room, that is all.�
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  The man still hesitated, but finally motioned up the ramp. “Very well. I’ll take you to your quarters.”

  She followed as he stumped up the ramp, then down a short ladder into the depths of the ship. The two thieves spat and argued as they navigated the steps and the narrow corridor beyond before depositing the trunk at the door to what would be her quarters for the next month or more.

  “This is where you’ll be stayin’,” the sailor muttered, motioning to a room barely large enough to hold her and the trunk. A cot folded down from one wall beneath a set of cupboards. A chamber pot sat in one corner. The only interruptions to the monotony of the wood were the worn but polished metal clasps and hinges on the cupboards and the latch to her door. “The mess is down the hall, food served at the bell. You can eat it there, or bring it back here. And I’d suggest you stay off the deck as much as possible. No need to give the crew ideas, what with a woman aboard and all.”

  Tuvaellis smiled in the shadows of her hood. “The crew does not worry me.”

  The sailor shook his head. He clearly didn’t agree with his captain about bringing a passenger aboard, especially a woman.

  The older of the ruffians coughed surreptitiously and gave her a meaningful look.

  She frowned, then remembered the coin. Taking it from the folds of her cloak, she tossed it to him. He snatched it out of the air with ease, cast one last greedy look back, then he and his young companion made for the deck.

  “You’ll only encourage them,” the sailor growled.

  She didn’t answer, simply stared at him until he fidgeted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “The Mary Gently will be leavin’ with the tide. We’re only waitin’ for a last shipment of spices to arrive.”

  “Very well.”

  He hesitated a moment more, then harrumphed, stepped carefully around her trunk, and vanished into the corridor.

  Tuvaellis lowered the cot and tossed her satchel on it, then stared down at the trunk in the doorway. It was made of oiled wood—­oak and ash—­polished to a high sheen, its corners fitted with brass accents. The oak had been stained a dark brown, the inlaid ash paneling left its natural color. Two thick leather handles had been pinned to the ends for easy carrying; there were no marks on the trunk.