The shaman and their leader broke into heated argument, the Riders they spoke to eyeing Colin skeptically. Whatever the shaman said, though, the guard finally relented.
“Stay close,” Colin said. “Tensions are bound to be high with three clans present.”
Three additional Riders joined their escort, one from each of the three clans, and then the shaman led the group down into the black entrance to the dwarren tunnels. The three horses balked at passing underground, but relented after some coaxing.
The main entrance opened up into a large room, then narrowed to a doorway, giant doors pulled back to the side beneath a massive mantle of carved stonework. For the first long leg, the grade of the slope was smooth, the corridor shored up and lined with cut stone of various colors from across the plains, massive support columns at regular intervals. Each support column had a central keystone in place at its height, which Colin knew could be knocked out, allowing the arch and a good portion of the tunnel roof to collapse. If the main doors couldn’t be held, then the dwarren were prepared to seal the entrance completely. Each section between keystones was lit with metal sconces of oil to either side.
Once they passed beyond this initial defense, the corridor narrowed and branched, the cut stone giving way to a type of granite that was too smooth to be natural, with no obvious seams to indicate how it had been constructed. It appeared to be made of solid rock, yet with carved murals at various points along its length. The number of sconces dropped, so that they passed from one pool of light to the next, the space between growing dark, but close enough to the next sconce that it wasn’t completely black. More and more dwarren appeared, carrying baskets or satchels, some pulling carts or pushing wagons loaded with stone or grain or unidentified barrels. Interspersed among them all were dwarren Riders, usually in groups of two or three, an occasional messenger trotting alone, a carved wooden cylinder clutched in one hand like a baton.
Then the corridor changed, sloping downward sharply enough that the escort Riders were forced to slow. The number of dwarren increased as well, the corridor now thronged with them—women and children appearing with greater frequency, nearly all of them carrying baskets or satchels of food. More joined them from side corridors in steady streams. At Siobhaen’s questioning look, Colin said, “They’re returning from the surface. They must be harvesting early spring crops.”
The corridor ended suddenly, opening up into a massive cavern filled with the roar of thousands of dwarren and the thunderous crash of water. As they descended a ramp to the wide flat plaza that made up the center of the cavern, Colin heard Siobhaen gasp. Even Eraeth drew back in shock.
Water streamed down the entire far wall of the cavern, its source coming from at least three major tunnels and two smaller ones, the streams crashing together in midair before plummeting in a single column to a massive pool below. The air was filled with mist, lit by hundreds of sconces scattered around the plaza and shining from the openings that covered the remaining walls of the rest of the chamber. This was the dwarren’s true city, rooms carved out of the walls all the way to the ceiling that towered overhead. Stairs and ledges zigzagged from door to door in a maze that nevertheless appeared to follow an intricate pattern, one that Colin thought he would be able to make out if he could spare the time. It was a hive of activity, bustling with dwarren as they moved from one level to another. Near the base of the walls, larger doorways led to storerooms, and nearer to the waterfall lay the chambers set aside for the clan chief, the head shaman, and the keeva—the room reserved for ritual contemplation and the heavy decisions made by both.
The escort surrounded them and led them toward the keeva after a word with a group of dwarren standing guard near the entrance to the cavern. As they approached, Colin picked out the heavy scent of yetope smoke beneath the thick layer of dampness and the heavy musk of earth and dwarren living in enclosed quarters for centuries on end. The doors to the keeva were shut, but he could see light shining in the cracks between it and the frame. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the edge near the top.
When the dwarren escort halted outside the chamber, Colin dismounted. Without waiting for the group to speak to the shaman guards who stood outside the door, he strode forward, leaving Eraeth and Siobhaen in mid-dismount.
The two shamans tensed instantly, reaching to block his path with the two scepters they carried, the snakes’ rattles and strings of beads clicking together with a sharp crack.
Colin seized time, stepped between them and beneath the supposed barrier, coming up before the keeva’s door. He reached for the door handle, releasing time a moment before he touched it and shoved the door open, ducking down through the low lintel designed more for the dwarren than humans. He straightened as much as he could inside, hand still on the door, heard gasps and shouts of consternation behind him, but he ignored it all, knowing that Eraeth and Siobhaen could defend themselves if necessary. He focused his attention on the six dwarren who sat in a rough circle around the central hollow of the fire pit, obscured by the thick haze of yetope smoke.
“If you’re discussing the Turning,” he said, “then I have information for you.”
The shouts from behind had changed to anger. He slid to one side, the six dwarren clan chiefs and shamans glaring at his hunched form, one of them sucking on the end of a pipe even though the yetope was thrown in the central fire for such meetings. One of the shaman guards burst into the room, anger twisting his face into a tight knot. He gave Colin a vicious look, then turned to the clan chiefs and head shamans in the room.
Brandishing his scepter, he bowed his head and said roughly, “Apologies, Old Ones. This human—” he spat the word “—passed between us before we could halt him. He is one of the elloktu!”
The eyebrows of the shaman sucking on the pipe rose. He took two more draws, then removed the pipe and blew smoke into the miasma already beginning to thin from the draft coming from the open door.
“The elloktu cannot survive here,” he said in a cold, deep voice cracked with age. “Or have you forgotten the gift of the Summer Tree?” He turned his wizened eyes on Colin again. “Shadowed One. We have not met, but I know of you. Your legend has been passed down to our generation, even though it is not yet an old legend.”
Colin nodded. “I am thankful to hear that.”
A silence followed, the shaman who’d spoken not taking his eyes off Colin. The rest of those gathered shared glances, until one of the clan chiefs stirred.
“Leave,” he said, motioning the guard out. “You are disturbing the smoke.”
The guard straightened, cast a questioning look at the head shamans in the group, but got no support from them. With a last scathing look at Colin, he departed, shutting the door behind him.
The tableau held for a moment, then one of the clan chiefs motioned toward a space before the fire, a natural shelf of rock that acted as a bench. Colin settled himself, his position still awkward, then leaned back against the rock wall. The entire chamber had been hollowed out by water ages past so that the contours were smooth, not carved or chipped. With the door closed, the heat in the room doubled, sweat breaking out on Colin’s back, chest, and armpits. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet, cloying yetope smoke, even as one of the clan chiefs tossed more of the dried plant onto the coals in the pit. Flames flared as it was consumed, smoke drifting up, until it was so thick Colin could barely make out the other dwarren in the reddish light.
When he exhaled, slowly, so as not to break into a fit of coughing, the shaman with the pipe spoke. “Welcome to our council, Shadowed One. I am called Quotl, head shaman of Thousand Springs, and this is Oaxatta of Shadow Moon, and Attanna of Silver Grass.”
“And I am Tarramic, clan chief of Thousand Springs.” The dwarren who’d ordered the shaman guard to leave motioned toward the other two clan chiefs. “Iktamman of Silver Grass, and Ummaka of Shadow Moon.”
“May Ilacqua bless this meeting and bring us wisdom in our decisions,” Quotl intoned
, motioning with his pipe as if it were a scepter. The words were reverent, but a smile turned one corner of his mouth a moment before he drew again on the pipe. In the dimness, Colin thought his eyes flared with amusement.
Tarramic shifted where he sat. “What do you know of the Turning, Shadowed One?” His tone suggested he doubted Colin would know anything of importance.
“The balance of the Wells has been disrupted.”
Iktamman snorted. “The storms have plagued the plains for months, and now the Eyes of Septimic have returned.”
“The gods are angry,” Oaxatta agreed. “It is a sign. The Turning is upon us.”
Quotl’s eyebrows rose again. “The Turning began generations ago. It has simply begun to speed up.”
Most of the dwarren fell silent at this, a few making rumbling sounds of agreement in their chests.
“It is more than that,” Colin said, already beginning to feel the effects of the smoke and heat. His arms and legs tingled, both taking on additional weight. At the same time, the heaviness was countered by a lightness in his mind, as if he were lifting free of his body. The dual sensation brought with it a sense of clarity. “The Wraiths and the Shadows—the urannen—have found a deeper, richer source of the Lifeblood to the east. They’ve opened up a conduit between it and the Wells here in the west.”
All six of the dwarren eyed him warily, then traded a glance. Something passed between them, and then Quotl gave Tarramic a curt nod. The head shaman no longer seemed amused.
“We called this meeting because of what we have seen on the plains. The storms and the distortions have grown too numerous and too dangerous for us to ignore them any longer. We have also heard from the other clans that there are disturbances to the east, an increase in the activity of the urannen and a resurgence of the kell. The clans have always sent war parties out beyond the reach of the Summer Tree to hunt them, kill them where we can, but their numbers have increased and they have begun banding together. The war parties, the trettarus, can now be overwhelmed. There are also disturbing sightings beyond the borders of dwarren lands, beyond the plains, in the depths of the Thalloran Wasteland. The trettarus report bands of figures—Alvritshai or men—walking the sands. No one has dared enter the Wastelands to confirm this.
“We gathered to discuss whether or not a Gathering of all of the clans should be called. We have been discussing it for three days now.”
Colin’s heart sank. He thought again of the Wraith’s words at the Well in the White Wastes. Even the lassitude brought on by the yetope could not still the sudden urgency that gripped him.
“What have you decided?” he asked.
Before the clan chiefs and head shamans could respond, the dull boom of drums resounded through the room, damped by the walls of stone that surrounded them. Colin glanced toward the closed door, even as the six dwarren stirred from their seats. Only Quotl seemed unfazed by the interruption.
When Colin turned toward him, he smiled.
“The decision has been made for us. We Gather. All clans, all Riders. We Gather at the Sacred Waters, beneath Ilacqua’s gaze. We Gather for war.”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Siobhaen asked the moment Colin stepped out of the keeva, the rest of the clan chiefs and head shamans already out in the cavern. The sound of the drums, at least three times louder in the chamber than inside the small room where the meeting had been held, had driven the dwarren into a frenzy of activity. He could hear the clan chiefs shouting orders, Riders scrambling to obey, the rest of the dwarren sprinting to get out of the way. The sudden activity and the harsh boom of the drums had set the horses and gaezels on edge.
“The dwarren have been called to a Gathering.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked in frustration. A group of dwarren jostled past her and she frowned down at them in annoyance, one hand gripping her horse’s bridle as she stepped back.
“It’s like calling the Evant,” Eraeth said. “The dwarren only call a Gathering for something of extreme importance, something affecting the dwarren as a whole. Otherwise, the clan chiefs deal with it individually.”
“The presence of three clan chiefs in one territory was significant enough, but this will bring them all together.”
“Where? And over what?” Eraeth asked.
Colin paused and listened to the deep bass throat of the drums. “The call is coming from the Painted Sands Clan, the easternmost dwarren territory. But they’re meeting at the Sacred Waters. They’re headed toward the Confluence.”
As he said it, the heavy boom of the drums faded. The dwarren paused for a moment, then resumed their frantic activity at a growled shout from Quotl. At the same time, a smaller drum within the chamber picked up a different rhythm, the sound echoing through the hall and up the long corridor toward the surface.
“I still don’t understand,” Siobhaen muttered.
Colin ignored her, stepping forward into the edge of the confusion. The two Alvritshai, Colin, and the horses had been left by the keeva, practically unattended. He searched for Clan Chief Tarramic, found him arguing with two of the head shamans, all three of them gesturing toward the mouth of the corridor where the summons had originated.
Behind, he heard Eraeth speaking to Siobhaen in a soft voice.
“The Confluence is the religious center of the dwarren. It’s the heart of their culture. No Alvritshai has ever been there. It was the goal of the Trials that those in the ruling Houses made before the Accord put an end to it. The sons and daughters of the ascendant lords were sent into the plains in search of the ruanavriell, the Blood of Aielan. Most found tunnels on the plains that led to streams or pools of water suffused with the healing water’s runoff, but no one ever found the source.”
Colin thought of the vial of pink-tinged water that Aeren had gifted to his father, the result of Aeren’s own Trial, and felt a tug of bitterness, the emotion too used and worn to remain long. Whatever his father had used it for had been for naught once they reached the Ostraell.
Siobhaen considered what Eraeth had said, then stepped up to Colin’s side. “But it doesn’t make sense. The dwarren aren’t reacting to what we know has happened to the sarenavriell. They can’t be. The drums came before you emerged from the room with the clan chiefs.”
“You’re right. This is something else.” He hesitated, then added, “I think it has to do with the activity to the east.”
“What activity?” Eraeth demanded.
“Activity with the Shadows. Sightings of another creature they call the kell in larger and larger groups. And bands of Alvritshai or perhaps humans deeper in the Thalloran Wasteland.”
“Alvritshai in the Wastelands?” Siobhaen scoffed. “Impossible. We come from the north. We would never survive in the desert.”
“Are you so certain? You’ve adapted to the southern reaches of the mountains rather well.”
“Regardless,” Eraeth interjected before Siobhaen could respond, “we should send word back to the Evant. The Tamaell should be aware of the dwarren movements, especially on such a large scale.”
“Lotaern should be forewarned as well.”
Eraeth shot her a piercing look and Colin nearly sighed. Siobhaen would have to bring up Lotaern now, after the two of them had been grudgingly civil to each other for the past few days. But surprisingly, Eraeth said nothing.
“We aren’t going to get the chance to send word.”
Both Eraeth and Siobhaen reacted at the same time. “Why not?”
Colin let the rumble of thousands of hoofed feet pounding into stone answer for him. Both of the Alvritshai guards turned toward the sound as it filled the cavern with its echo, the drums that had called to the surface falling silent. The dwarren who filled the giant plaza suddenly parted, surging to either side and clearing the space before the main corridor opposite the waterfall. As they did so, the three clan chiefs stepped forward, the head shamans a few paces behind.
A moment later, the leading edge of Riders emerged from the
corridor, standing five abreast. Row upon row of the gaezels appeared, the leading group swinging around in a wide circle to make room for those coming behind in a pattern that Colin had first seen on the plains above decades ago. As the wide plaza filled, the number of Riders growing large enough that Colin’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, he noted that not all of the gaezels bore dwarren. The group had brought down the mounts of those already below.
Tarramic raised a hand when the last of the Riders appeared, his other stroking the beads and feathers interlaced in his beard. Those milling about in the central plaza stilled, the cessation of sound spreading like a ripple on water from Tarramic’s position, although it was impossible for the hall to fall totally silent with the waterfall raging in the background.
As he began to speak, his rumbling voice filling the cavern, Siobhaen grasped Colin’s arm in irritation, forced him to look at her. “What is he saying?”
“He’s telling the clans—all of the clans present—to prepare to leave for the Sacred Waters. We’ll depart at dawn.”
“We can send word back to Caercaern then,” Eraeth said succinctly.
Colin shook his head. “No. We can’t.”
“Why not!” Siobhaen’s grip tightened.
He turned a somber gaze on her. “Because we won’t be traveling on the surface. We’ll be traveling underground.”
Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony of his House holdings in Caercaearn and stared out across the tiered city as it came to life. Lanterns were doused by patrols as the sun dawned on the horizon, gray light filtering through the peaks of the Hauttaeren Mountains where they dipped southward east of the city, purple with distance. The Sanctuary chimes rang utiern.
Aeren’s thoughts turned toward Lotaern and the Order of Aielan. He frowned, one hand rising to grip the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, a symbol of all that he had achieved while an acolyte within the Order, before his father and brother died on the battlefields of the plains and forced him to return to ascend as Lord of the Rhyssal House. If he had remained in the Order, would he support Lotaern now, in whatever power play he was making?
Leaves of Flame Page 21