“But recently, some of the actions of the Order of Aielan, and in particular, the Chosen, Lotaern, have caused me concern. I have found it more and more difficult to accept these changes made within the Order. I know that many of you are now thinking that my own reservations are born out of a personal conflict with Lotaern, a grudge or feud with him that I have harbored since I left the Order, perhaps rooted in my own dissatisfaction at being forced to leave. I tell you now, this is not so. When I left the Order, it was with the greatest respect for Lotaern and for the Order itself. It is only recent events that have troubled me. I know they have troubled some of the rest of you as well.”
He paused, looking around the room, taking in the expressions of every one of the lords where they sat behind the tables lined with cloth of their House colors. Most of their faces were carefully blank, their postures reserved. Lord Terraec’s gaze was locked on Lotaern, who sat behind his own table draped in folds of white, his hands hidden. Aeren turned to the Chosen as well as he continued.
“I have spoken to all of the lords regarding the members of the Order of the Flame, what is in essence the Order’s Phalanx, that have been actively invading our individual House lands under the auspices of being acolytes. They have been performing the rituals of the Order in the temples, acting as acolytes, and in most cases the acolytes who have been sent to care for the local populations at each temple have deferred to them. As a Lord of one of the Houses of the Evant, I would not condone the use of one of my fellow lords’ Phalanxes in my own lands without that lord first seeking permission from me and my fellow caitans. I would humbly request that the Chosen order the current members of the Order of the Flame who inhabit my lands back to the Sanctuary here in Caercaern, until such time as the Chosen seeks and gains permission to have the Flame enter my lands. I strongly suggest that the rest of the Lords of the Evant do the same.
“I would ask that the Evant reprimand the Chosen for his actions, for this blatant invasion of House lands. He has overstepped the bounds of the Order.”
A silence thrumming with anger followed his words. Aeren felt that anger trembling in his arms, the hands behind his back clasped so hard he knew the knuckles were white. The strength of the emotion surprised him. But what he had said in his speech was true: he had left the Order with the greatest respect for Lotaern and what the Chosen had taught him while he was an acolyte. The emergence of the Order of the Flame and the actions Lotaern had taken since then had been difficult to accept. Lotaern was not the mentor he remembered so fondly from his studies anymore. He had changed.
But the anger in the room did not come solely from him. He could feel it radiating from Lotaern as well. Somehow, over the course of years, the two had grown apart, grown distant.
A part of him regretted that distance and hated the enmity between them now. But he could not let Lotaern’s actions stand unchallenged.
Behind him, he heard the Tamaell stand and step forward, his tread unmistakable, but he did not turn to face him.
“As Tamaell of the Alvritshai,” Thaedoren said, his voice filling the chamber, smooth and dark with import, “I find that some of Lord Aeren’s concerns have merit. There are issues regarding the Order of the Flame that we have not yet addressed, one of which is how the Flame is to be treated. Should the Order be considered a House and the Flame its Phalanx? Lord Aeren has stated that is how he feels, and as such the Flame should not be allowed to arbitrarily enter a fellow lord’s House lands. The alternative is to agree that the Flame is not a military force at all, but merely a group of specialized acolytes, in which case the Order would not be considered equivalent to a House in its own right.
“I pose the question to Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, first. Does the Order wish to be considered the equivalent to a House, with the Order of the Flame as its Phalanx, subject to all of the expectations and restrictions of a member of the Evant?”
Aeren felt his heart lurch as the words sank in. This was not what he had intended when he brought his concern to the Evant. He had simply wanted the lords to force Lotaern to remove the members of the Flame from House lands. He had not wanted to bring the Order’s place among the Evant into question. What Thaedoren had brought to the floor would solidify the powers that Lotaern wielded within the Evant. It would answer the question that had hounded them all since the Order of the Flame had been revealed. If the lords agreed, Lotaern would become the equivalent of a lord. Instead of merely having a say in the Evant, his opinion easily dismissed since he had no true power, he would gain political weight.
Aeren turned to regard the Tamaell in horror, but Thaedoren was not looking at him. His focus was on Lotaern. Aeren spun back to the Chosen of the Order, his heart now beating too fast in his chest. For he knew how Lotaern would answer.
Standing slowly, the Chosen of the Order addressed the room as a whole, not once looking toward Aeren. He kept his face impassive, although Aeren noted a hint of smugness in the thrust of his chin.
He doubted any of the other lords knew him well enough to see it.
“As you know, I have long sought to have a say within the Evant. It is my belief that the voice of Aielan should be considered when matters that affect all of the Alvritshai are being decided. Because of this, I would claim that the Order has always been the spiritual House of the Alvritshai. This would simply be recognition of that fact by the Lords of the Evant.”
Thaedoren had frowned, but after a moment he turned to the rest of the Lords of the Evant. “Then I demand an accounting. All those in favor of recognizing the Order of Aielan as a House of the Evant, and the Order of the Flame as its Phalanx, with Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order, as its current lord, please stand.”
Aeren spun as first Orraen, then Daesor, Saetor, Houdyll, and finally Peloroun stood. Only Terroec remained seated. Fury hardened him, forced his shoulders back as Thaedoren turned to face him, even though despair left him empty inside.
He had not come here to validate Lotaern’s and the Order’s position in the Evant. But he could see no way to stop it.
“What say you, Lord Aeren?”
Aeren gritted his teeth and blew a short breath out through his nose, eyes lowered, then answered, looking up toward Thaedoren. “I am not in favor of the proposal, Tamaell.”
Thaedoren nodded. “So I expected. However, it is long past time for this to be addressed. The proposal is passed. The Order of Aielan has been granted the same responsibilities, duties, and expectations of a House of the Evant. Do you accept these responsibilities, duties, and expectations, Chosen?”
Lotaern nodded humbly. “I do.”
“Then so shall it be recorded.”
A loud murmur spread through the entire Hall as Lotaern took his seat, a brief, triumphant smile touching his face. Before it could settle there permanently, Thaedoren halted it with a level glare.
“As the equivalent of a Lord of the Evant, with the Flame as your Phalanx, I am forced to agree with Lord Aeren regarding his grievance of members of the Flame entering his House lands without first seeking permission. As Tamaell, commander of all of the House Phalanx, I command you to order their return to the Sanctuary immediately. Not only from Rhyssal House lands, but from all of the lands of the Houses.”
At Lotaern’s grudging nod, Thaedoren turned his gaze on Aeren again. Aeren could see the message there clearly: his concern regarding the Flame had been addressed, but it had come at a cost. One that Aeren wasn’t certain he would have been willing to pay had he known of it beforehand.
“Was there some other grievance that you wished to address regarding the Order of Aielan?” the Tamaell asked.
Aeren hesitated. Thaedoren was giving him the opportunity to bring up the theft of the knife from Shaeveran, giving him a chance to retaliate. He had told all of the lords of Lotaern’s actions during their private meetings, knew that they were watching him now.
But he knew he couldn’t make an accusation before the Evant. Not without Shaeveran at his side. No
t without more evidence. It would be seen as a personal attack on the Chosen himself, as Thaedoren had pointed out earlier. It would be hearsay, nothing more.
Aeren had not survived this long within the Evant, risen to the heights he had, by being politically naïve, no matter how much he wished to bring Lotaern down. It was time for a strategic retreat.
Jaw clenched, he shot a glance toward the Chosen, head raised… then bowed his head.
“No, Tamaell, I have nothing further to bring to the floor.”
JAYSON AND CORIM STUMBLED into Cobble Kill with the sunset, the sheet of thin clouds overhead blazing with a deep burnt orange. Jayson halted at the end of the stone bridge over the stream that gave the town its name, leaning heavily against a stone pillar with a lantern already lit at its top. Corim slumped down on the stone abutment of the bridge.
“We’re almost there, Corim.”
He tried to keep the words light and encouraging, but it had been a long walk and neither one of them had slept much since the night of the attack. It had taken them three days to reach Cobble Kill, which would normally take a day on horseback. They had seen no one on the road the first two days, but that afternoon, while taking a break near a small creek, they had heard a horse-drawn cart trundle past on the dirt road. Corim had shot Jayson a terrified glance, his body rigid with fear. Jayson had shushed him with a hand gesture, motioned him to stay still. He’d been facing the road and had caught glimpses of the cart through the heavy undergrowth.
He hadn’t thought it was a threat, but he wouldn’t take the chance. Not with Corim at his side.
“Let’s find the Legion’s garrison,” he said, staring down toward the town square. He pushed himself away from the stone pillar and urged Corim up from his seat. The boy groaned, but came along. Jayson kept one hand on his shoulder, in case he collapsed.
Cobble Kill claimed three taverns and an inn, a stable, two smithies, and three mercantiles, one from each of the three major trading companies. All of its streets were paved with cobblestone and converged on a main square lined with two-story buildings, a few with balconies overlooking the square. Nearly all of the buildings were made of river stone. Shutters were drawn and windows glowed with candle or lantern light. More of the stone pillars topped with lanterns lined the road into the square and Jayson and Corim followed them as the day faded and night fell. A burst of laughter and noise spilled from one of the tavern doors as it was opened and someone staggered into the street. Both Jayson and Corim stiffened, Corim drawing a step closer. But the man didn’t see them, moving off toward the west.
Jayson scanned the street, noted the horses and two carts that marked the taverns and inn and the low fence that surrounded the stable yard. Wind sighed through the trees, new spring leaves rustling. He didn’t see anything that looked like a Legion garrison. He’d been to Cobble Kill a few times before, delivering ground grain to the mercantiles, but he’d never had need of the garrison before.
Without any idea of where to go, he moved toward the nearest tavern. Corim hesitated at the door, but glanced out into the settling darkness with a shudder and followed Jayson inside.
There were at least a dozen men and women seated at rough wooden tables arranged around a central hearth, the fire low, a pot on an iron hook set over the flames. Lanterns hung from the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, a set of stairs angling up to the rooms above to one side, opposite the hearth. A pair of doors led to the kitchen in the back.
As he halted inside the door, the raucous laughter trailed off, everyone taking notice of them. Most were simply curious, trading questioning glances and receiving shrugs in return. One or two expressions were hostile for no apparent reason.
Before the silence could become awkward, the doors to the kitchen opened and a woman stepped through, hair held back with a folded scarf, an apron tied around her broad waist. “Got yer venison right here, Carl, no need to—oh!”
She halted as she saw them, a platter with steaming meat held aloft in one hand, a mug of ale in the other. But only for a moment. A smile broke across her initial surprise, then she set the platter and ale down in front of Carl. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, her gaze dropping to Corim, then back to Jayson, settling on the bloodstained sleeve of his arm and the torn cloth he’d used to bandage the wound.
“You two look famished. Need a room for the night? Some food?”
Jayson’s stomach growled, but he shook his head. “We’re looking for the Legion’s garrison. We’re from Gray’s Kill.”
She frowned. “Not much of a garrison here, more like an outpost now, although it used to be larger.”
“Where is it?”
“Left, down the main road about a half mile.”
Jayson gripped Corim’s shoulder harder as the boy began to list. He reached down to support him with his other hand and said, “Thank you,” but before he could move them toward the door Corim sagged into him.
He caught him as the woman cried out, reaching forward to catch the boy’s other arm.
“Here, now, he’s so exhausted he can’t stand! And so are you,” she added reprovingly. She dragged Corim toward the nearest empty chair and sat him down, Jayson forced to follow. When she stood, she pointed to a second seat and said with a glare, “Sit.”
Her glare darkened when Jayson made to protest, so he swallowed his words and slid wearily into the proffered chair. The woman nodded and swept off. He leaned forward onto the table and his own exhaustion swept over him, shaking his shoulders and trembling in his arms and legs. He knew the rest of the tavern’s patrons were watching them both, but he didn’t care enough to glance up.
He heard the door to the kitchen kicked open and a moment later two bowls of stew clattered to the table before him and Corim. He shoved back from the table, but before he could mention that they had no coin to pay for it, the woman said, “Eat. You both need the strength.”
There was no questioning the command in her voice. And when he breathed in the rich scent of the stew, he found his body wouldn’t let him protest. He pulled it toward him, noticed that the smell had roused Corim as well, the boy shifting forward, snatching up the spoon, and shoveling the stew in as fast as he could. They’d had only not-quite-ripe berries and whatever tubers and leeks Jayson could scavenge for the past three days.
“Thank you,” Jayson managed, before diving into his own bowl. Corim muttered something that may have been thanks around a mouthful, and the woman nodded.
“I’ll be back with some bread. Don’t eat it all before then. And Carl—” she said, spinning toward the man, who froze, a forkful of venison half raised toward his mouth, “—get yer lazy ass out of that chair and hike it down to the garrison. Bring back one of the Legionnaires. This man needs to speak to him.”
Carl grumbled something under his breath, then shoved the forkful into his mouth, chewing as he rose and wiped his hands on his breeches. He eyed the two from Gray’s Kill, then shook his head and stalked out into the night, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Jayson.” The woman turned as he spoke. “My name’s Jayson Freeholt, and this is my apprentice Corim.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jayson and Corim.” Corim flinched at his name and the woman frowned, casting a sharp eye at Jayson. “My name’s Ara and this is my tavern.” She held out her hand and Jayson shook it. Her grip was strong, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. She was built solidly, broad shoulders and body, ample breasts, round face. Not fat, but stout, her carriage no-nonsense. “What brings you to Cobble Kill?”
The stew in Jayson’s mouth turned tasteless. He swallowed with difficulty and set his spoon back in the bowl. “Someone attacked Gray’s Kill,” he said, his voice hoarse.
The words unlocked something in his chest he’d held onto tightly since the night of the attack, all of the images—the smoke, the reflected fire, the hissing of the creatures that had struck from the darkness, and the chill of sleeping on the barge in the middle of th
e river—all of it flooding back in a sudden wave. He choked on it, his heart seizing, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, but before they could spill over, he heard Corim sob.
He reached out without thinking and drew the boy close to him, the youth burying his head in Jayson’s chest, snuffling loudly. The murmurs that had started up as soon as Ara returned with the stew stilled again, and Jayson looked up to find that Ara herself had drawn back a step in horror, one hand raised to her mouth.
“Who?” she asked. Then, with more force, “Who attacked Gray’s Kill?”
Jayson shook his head. “I don’t know. We never made it back to the village. We were attacked by creatures on the road, and then the dwarren came—”
At mention of the dwarren the people in the tavern gasped and broke into excited conversation, the sound cutting Jayson off. An elderly man spat to one side and muttered, “I never did trust those earth-diggers. Bunch of sneaky bastards, they are.” A round of general agreement passed through the room, Ara looking on in disapproval, hands now on hips.
The anger that had been stirred might have escalated if the door hadn’t opened and one of the Legionnaires stepped into the tavern, followed by Carl.
Dressed in armor, he blocked the door, although he wasn’t a bulky man. His gray eyes swept the room, taking in everything with one glance, his gaze settling on Jayson and Corim with a frown. He held himself with a stiff, military bearing, head high, shoulders back, feet placed firmly. Yet when he took the few steps from the door to their table, removing his helmet, his motions were smooth. One hand fell casually to the pommel of the sword strapped to his side as he cradled the helmet with the other. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Jayson.
“You wished to speak to the Legion?” he asked gruffly. His eyes measured both Jayson and Corim. “If it is about enlisting, there’s a general call held every—”
“It’s not about enlisting, Gregson,” Ara cut in sharply. “He says Gray’s Kill has been attacked.”
Leaves of Flame Page 28