Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

He handed her the missive, ignoring her sharp glance. She smoothed the wrinkled parchment across her knee, Aeren’s smooth print soothing in its familiarity. He had departed for Caercaern with his escort of Phalanx and a covey of servants over three weeks before. He would already have spoken to many of the lords as they arrived, before the Evant was called into session. The Evant would have convened only three days ago.

  As the realization struck, she looked up, eyes widening. “How can this be about the opening of the Evant? There hasn’t been enough time for a courier to arrive. Unless…”

  “Two horses were ridden to death to bring this to us as fast as possible.”

  When Fedaureon didn’t continue, she turned her attention to the letter. She read it fast, her breath quickening as the implications began to dawn on her, even as she murmured, “This isn’t possible. How could Thaedoren have allowed this? The Order of Aielan has always been separate from the Evant. Always. And now it is the equivalent of one of the Houses?”

  “So it appears.” Fedaureon’s tone was serious, but Moiran couldn’t help but hear the youth in it. She didn’t think he understood what this would mean to the Evant, what it would mean to the stability of the Alvritshai.

  How could he understand? He had only just begun to learn what it took to become a Lord of a House of the Evant. She had handed all of the basics of running the House to him when Aeren left for his foolhardy excursion to the White Wastes, had in effect allowed him to be the Lord of House Rhyssal, but that was nothing compared to the lord’s duties in the Evant and Caercaern.

  “You don’t understand,” she snapped, more harshly than she’d intended. She tossed the parchment to the table as she stood. “The entire balance of the Evant will be disrupted. The power structure of Caercaern will shift. The Order has always had influence on the Evant, the faith of each lord affecting his decisions for that House, but this… this allows that same faith a position on the floor. The Chosen will be able to coerce the lords directly now. He’ll be able to introduce his own proposals, will wield the name of Aielan to sway those lords to his side, and with their votes—­and his own—­he will be able to push his policies through unopposed!” She began to pace, thinking aloud, Fedaureon watching her silently. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved. “Too many of the lords put their faith before their own interests. It’s too much power in the hands of one man. Why would Thaedoren allow it?”

  “According to Father’s letter, the Tamaell did more than simply allow it,” Fedaureon said, retrieving the letter from the table. “He says that it was Thaedoren’s suggestion.”

  “Your half brother would never do such a thing,” Moiran muttered dangerously.

  “He must have had his reasons. The letter mentions Lady Reanne. Father says he can feel her influence in Caercaern already.”

  Moiran shot Fedaureon a glare. She knew Fedaureon had never gotten along with Thaedoren and Daedalan, even though they were half siblings. There were too many years between them, Fedorem’s sons already full grown before Fedaureon’s birth, Thaedoren already the Tamaell of the Alvritshai. There had been little interaction between them, except on a political level.

  That still did not excuse the bland condescension in Fedaureon’s tone.

  “Tamaell Thaedoren is of your blood. You will not speak of him with that tone. Nor of Lady Reanne.”

  Fedaureon held her gaze for an angry moment, before a measure of shame flickered through his eyes and he lowered his head slightly. Moiran straightened where she stood, then motioned toward the letter in his hands.

  “What else does your father say? What does he suggest we do?”

  Fedaureon scanned the parchment, although Moiran doubted he needed to reread the words. “He says that the Evant has ruled against the presence of the Order of the Flame in House lands unless they have the express permission of the lords to enter, but he doesn’t say anything about what we should do regarding the Order becoming a House itself.”

  “He’s leaving that up to us, then.” She paused, then added, “Up to you.” When Fedaureon looked up, she said, “You are the Lord of Rhyssal House in his absence, not me. So what do you suggest?”

  She watched as he considered, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “There isn’t an overt threat yet, although both you and Father seem to think so. We should warn the Phalanx in our House lands, especially those who are patrolling the borders.”

  “Anything else?”

  Fedaureon considered, glanced toward Daevon, who merely raised one unhelpful eyebrow. “Increase the Phalanx guard here in Artillien.”

  “Nothing more?”

  He frowned. “No. The creation of a new House within the Evant isn’t enough to warrant anything more, not until the Order of Aielan has done something more blatant.”

  “What about the members of the Order of the Flame that are already within Rhyssal House lands?”

  Her son glanced down at the letter in his lap. “Father says that they have been ordered to return to Caercaern, unless given permission to remain by the lord of that House. He wants those within Rhyssal to leave, but we have to give them a reasonable amount of time before we can act. I don’t think we can do anything about them at the moment.”

  He looked up, seeking her approval. But he was old enough and wise enough not to need it. She didn’t need to validate his decisions any longer. She couldn’t. He needed to begin standing on his own.

  Instead, she said, “Very well, Lord Presumptive of Rhyssal House. You should make your wishes known to the Phalanx and the rest of the House.”

  Fedaureon stood uncertainly, then departed, Daevon bowing formally and falling in behind him. She heard her son issuing orders before he’d reached the end of the hall, his voice sharp with confidence, all of the uncertainty gone. She nodded to herself, pleased, then moved to the table to pick up parchment and quill, dipping the nub into the bottle of ink to one side.

  Fedaureon may not be able to do more without some further sign of aggression from Lotaern and the Order, but the Ilvaeren had no such political bounds.

  She began to draft a letter to the ladies of those Houses allied most closely with Rhyssal. Halceon Nuant and Sovaeren Baene needed to be apprised of the situation as soon as possible. Perhaps they would be able to help. She wasn’t certain how, just yet, but as Tamaea, she’d learned long ago to keep her options open.

  “We have to get word to GreatLord Kobel immediately,” Gregson said as soon as they entered the town of Cobble Kill. “Terson, begin drafting a missive as soon as you get back to the garrison. Curtis, Ricks, send out the alarm and begin gathering the rest of the Legion in the commons, along with anyone in town with a sword or who knows how to fight. And someone fetch the councilman.”

  Terson nodded sharply and took off ahead of them, Curtis and Ricks following a horse-­length behind, cutting past the few people who lined the street and the commons. Jayson watched them for a moment, then turned to find Gregson looking at him.

  “What do you and the boy intend to do?” the lieutenant asked.

  The question sent a jolt through Jayson’s body, prickling along his spine and shoulders. He involuntarily straightened in the saddle and sucked in a sharp breath. The numbness he’d felt since seeing Lianne’s body shuddered through him, and he glanced quickly toward Corim. He hadn’t permitted himself to think since they’d left Gray’s Kill, Gregson not even allowing them time to burn or bury the bodies. As soon as they’d verified that Lianne and Corim’s parents were dead, he’d ordered them back on horseback and herded them toward Cobble Kill. Jayson hadn’t protested and it never crossed his mind to stay behind. There was nothing left of Gray’s Kill, even though his mill remained standing. There were no farmers now, no one to bring grain to be milled.

  But he hadn’t considered what he would do in Cobble Kill either.

  “I don’t know,” he said and caught Corim’s eye. “I… I haven’t had time to think.”

  Gregson nodded. “For now, I want you to stay h
ere,” he said, and Jayson realized they’d stopped before Ara’s tavern. “Ara will put you up at the GreatLord’s expense. I’ll need to speak with the councilman of Cobble Kill. He may want to speak with you himself. And perhaps some of the other dignitaries in the town. After that… well, we’ll see. I may have to send you and the boy to Temeritt to give them your own accounting of what happened.”

  “Temeritt?” Jayson swallowed. “I’ve never been farther than Jenkin’s Peak.”

  Gregson’s eyebrows rose.

  He jumped when a bell suddenly clanged, shattering the afternoon stillness. All heads in the commons turned ­toward the noise, including Gregson, who hadn’t even flinched.

  “That’s the call to arms,” the lieutenant said.

  On the stone plaza, men and women traded quick glances, women herding children back toward their homes, their errands forgotten. The men’s faces turned grim, hustling off in the direction Terson and the others had taken.

  The doors to one of the main houses that looked out onto the square abruptly flung open and an elderly man stepped out onto the street, glaring toward the sound. Two other men appeared in the doorway. The man spat on the ground to one side, then noticed Gregson astride his mount before the tavern. His expression twisted into a grimace and he headed straight toward them.

  Gregson sighed, but straightened in his saddle. “Councilman Darren.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” the councilman growled as he approached, motioning toward the clamor from the garrison. “Why are you summoning the Legion? I have visitors, merchants of significance to two trading houses, including one Signal. This interruption to our business is intolerable!”

  Jayson’s gaze shot toward the two men who had sidled out onto the front steps of the stone manse, looking after the councilman curiously. They were dressed in the vests of the trading companies, although the dark blue of the man on the right was obviously of finer quality, even from this distance. He must be the Signal.

  Gregson’s eyes darkened. “Your business dealings are of no concern to me, Councilman. The safety of this town is.”

  Darren spluttered. “I fail to see how the safety of the town is threatened at the moment.”

  “Have you not heard?” Gregson said stiffly. “The village of Gray’s Kill has been razed to the ground, nearly all of the villagers slaughtered.”

  The councilman stared at the lieutenant, eyes wide, mouth open.

  Doubt had just begun to filter through the initial shock in the man’s eyes, changing almost instantly into disbelief and rage, when Jayson heard a hiss followed by a thunk as something struck the councilman in the chest.

  Jayson’s heart lurched even as the councilman staggered, gaze dropping to the black arrow that protruded at a sharp angle just below his heart. Blood already stained his shirt, seeping downward. One hand rose to clutch at the shaft of the arrow, tugging at it weakly.

  The councilman turned a confused look toward Gregson. “What—­” he began, his voice no more than a whisper.

  Then his legs gave out and he thumped down to his knees.

  Jayson gaped, frozen, unable to process what had happened. The arrow didn’t make any sense; it had come from nowhere.

  Then Gregson kicked his horse forward, his narrowed gaze shooting toward the rock promontory that overlooked the town.

  Jayson looked just in time to see a figure stand and draw, the bow black against the blue sky, tufts of clouds scudding along behind him. Then he gasped, jerked forward, encumbered by his seat in the saddle, but managed to grab Gregson’s arm and haul him backward.

  The arrow shot past Gregson’s shoulder and sank into the flank of his horse.

  The animal screamed and reared, wrenching Gregson from Jayson’s grip and throwing him from the saddle, before charging across the commons, trampling the councilman as it passed.

  “Diermani’s balls!” Gregson spat as he scrambled to his feet. On the promontory above, ten more archers had appeared. “Those aren’t dwarren,” he whispered. “They’re Alvritshai.”

  Arrows lanced down into the commons, breaking the tableau as women shrieked and men dodged toward cover. Gregson’s horse had vanished down the southern road. The two tradesmen stared in shock at the councilman’s body, the attackers hidden from their sight by the councilman’s manse. Jayson couldn’t think, his breath coming in short huffs, his entire body humming. Reaching for Gregson had been pure instinct, nothing more.

  Gregson suddenly spun. “Warn Terson,” he barked, then slapped Jayson’s horse on the rump. The animal lurched forward, nearly throwing Jayson from the saddle. He cried out, hissing as the muscles in his legs spasmed, but caught himself. He heard Corim’s frantic shout from behind him, twisted in the saddle in time to see Gregson hauling the apprentice down from his horse moments before two arrows sank into the animal’s neck. It reared, screaming shrilly, feet kicking, but Gregson and Corim were already sprinting toward the protection of the tavern’s corner, the Legionnaire roaring warnings at the men and women caught in the open square. Jayson’s heart seized as three men and one woman fell to the cobbles, and then something skimmed across his own back, tracing a line of fire from shoulder to side, tugging at his clothing. He spun in his seat, grabbed at the reins and leaned forward over the horse’s neck as it careened through the fleeing people of Cobble Kill. More arrows rained down, shattering on the stone of the roadway. He heard a roar of rage, saw a man spin as an arrow took him in the throat, saw a woman dragging her daughter’s body into the cover of the stable yard, blood glistening bright on the stone beneath her—­

  And then the erupting chaos of the commons was left behind as his horse galloped down the southern road. Jayson gasped at the sudden calm that descended, although he could still hear the screams from the town behind. His heart thundered in his ears, the horse’s body thudding into his chest beneath him. His thoughts flickered from Corim to Terson to Gregson, torn between responsibilities, and he choked with indecision.

  “Gregson has Corim,” he whispered to himself, voice ragged. He swallowed against the sudden sourness in his mouth and throat.

  And then the garrison appeared ahead. Men were already gathered in the roadway, some of them pointing back toward the town with their swords, bellowing questions. Three of them surrounded Gregson’s horse, holding it steady as Terson jerked the arrow from its flank. It whinnied and shied away from him, but the Legionnaire ignored it, frowning down at the bloodied shaft in his hand.

  At a shout from one of the men, Terson glanced up, caught sight of Jayson’s horse charging toward them, and stepped directly into the animal’s path.

  Jayson’s bit back a curse and pulled hard on the horse’s reins to bring its frantic bolt to a halt. As it dug into the road, he rose in the saddle and roared, “The town is under attack!”

  “From where? By whom?” The cries came from all directions, but Terson caught Jayson as he fell from the saddle, others stepping forward to calm his horse.

  “Archers,” Jayson gasped, his body trembling with adrenaline. “Archers are on the promontory overlooking the town. They’re firing down into the commons. And they aren’t dwarren. They’re Alvritshai.”

  Terson shot him a strange look, then bellowed, “To arms! Every man who’s here, grab your swords and form up! Curtis, sound the alarm. This isn’t a call to assemble any longer; it’s a call to war. Now move! Move, move, move!”

  The entire group of men broke and scrambled, some charging toward the garrison that wasn’t much more than a wooden outpost on the side of the road with a stable in the back. The steady clang of the bell suddenly changed, another joining it, the combined sound now frantic. Ricks barreled out of the garrison, still fully armored from the ride to Gray’s Kill.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Get the men armed and organized here on the roadway as quickly as possible, then we’ll head toward Cobble Kill.”

  The young soldier dashed off toward the stables, shouting orders as he went.<
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  “Tell me what you saw,” Terson ordered, turning on Jayson.

  “I only saw archers on the rock bluff overlooking the town. They nearly got Gregson before he ordered me to warn you and sent me here.” He tried not to think about Corim, about the others caught in the square.

  “Are these the same men who attacked Gray’s Kill?”

  “I didn’t see any Alvritshai or archers that night. I only saw the creatures and the dwarren.”

  Terson swore. Behind him, men were struggling into armor, additional horses being herded from the stable to the road by a group of stableboys, saddles hastily being cinched tight. “Cobble Kill isn’t designed to withstand an attack,” Terson growled as he watched. He suddenly motioned ­toward Ricks. “Get me a spare sword. Now!”

  When the soldier returned, he handed the weapon to Jayson. “Have you ever used one before?”

  Jayson took the sheathed blade in both hands as he shook his head, surprised at how heavy it felt. He swallowed once, his heart already quickening. He couldn’t seem to clear the sourness in his throat. “No.”

  Terson grunted and slapped him on the back. “Do the best you can.”

  He shoved Jayson toward his horse and turned to the rest of the men, most of them ready and waiting. Jayson hastily began belting the sword around his waist.

  “I want Curtis to take you four and try to circle up to Grant’s Overlook and deal with those archers. The rest of us are going straight into Cobble Kill. Got it?”

  The entire group broke out with a “Yes, sir!” Curtis motioned his selected men to one side. Someone brought Terson his horse and he mounted, Jayson drawing his horse to the side of the road and swinging up into the saddle. The sword felt awkward and cumbersome at his side, but he held onto its pommel with a death grip. He could hear his pulse pounding in his head, sweat causing his shirt to stick to his back. His upper shoulder stung and he reached back with his free hand. He felt nothing except a rent in his shirt, but his fingers came back with traces of blood.

  He suddenly recalled the lancing pain he’d felt as he’d raced from Cobble Kill. He must have been grazed by an arrow.