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 theAlvritshai.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 fi nally Peloroun stood. Only Terraec 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. Not 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 Jay-son 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 b
egan 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-quiteripe 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 the 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.”
Jayson wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Gregson straightened where he stood.
“Attacked,” he said, the word sharp but hesitant. “By whom?”
Jayson opened his mouth, but Ara beat him to it. “He doesn’t know. Creatures, he said, and the dwarren!”
Gregson’s frown deepened. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
The Legionnaire glanced around the room, at the avid faces of the other patrons, then sighed. He set his helmet on the table. “May as well question you here,” he muttered, “rather than risk rumors running rampant after we leave.” He pulled the chair up opposite Jayson and Corim and seated himself, his armor making his position awkward. “Now, explain what happened.”
Jayson drew in a deep breath to steady himself, then launched into the story, relating everything that had happened from the moment they stepped out of the mill to arriving in Cobble Kill. Corim added a few comments when asked directly by Gregson but otherwise remained quiet. The rest of the patrons were silent except for an occasional snort or gasp. Ara listened attentively, but kept everyone’s mugs of ale full, even bringing Gregson a cup, which he did not drink.
Gregson said nothing at first when Jayson finished. He leaned back in his chair and regarded both Jayson and Corim intently. Then: “Let me see your arm.”
Jayson shifted forward and began unwinding the hasty bandage he’d placed on the wound. The recitation of the attack had numbed him, his motions slow, even though the stew had restored some of his strength. He grimaced when the last few lengths of torn cloth pulled at the cuts.
The claw marks were reddened, swollen, and crusted with scabs. A few fresh dots of blood welled up where the removal of the bandage had reopened the wound.
He held his arm out for Gregson, who grunted as he leaned forward to examine it, taking Jayson’s arm and twisting it this way and that in the lantern light.Ara craned over his shoulder, then tsked and disappeared into the back room again. She returned before Gregson had fi nished, fresh bandages hung over one arm and a squat jar of unguent in one hand.
“Those are some serious wounds,” Gregson said as he finished. “Not from any animal I’ve ever seen.”
“One of them caught my leg as well.”
Gregson’s eyes dropped to his leg. The skeptical note had faded from his voice.
Ara had already begun attending to his arm. He hissed as she slathered the first layer of unguent across the cuts, the thick paste stinging, but he held still as she began tying fresh bandages across it.
Gregson appeared to reach a decision, standing and taking up his helmet. “We’ll need to see Gray’s Kill before I send someone to Hartleton or Temeritt. Rest up here, if Ara’s got the rooms to spare—”
“Of course I do,” she said succinctly, looking to Jayson and t
hen Corim with a smile.
“—and I’ll gather together some of the Legion. I’d like you to accompany us, if you would, Jayson.”
Jayson frowned as Ara tied off the last bandage and patted his arm, even as relief flooded through him, the burden of responsibility lifting from his shoulders. He had intended to return once he passed on the warning. He needed to find out what had happened to Lianne.
“I’m coming, too.”
Both Jayson and Gregson turned at Corim’s quiet declaration. The youth had said little on the trek to Cobble Kill, sunk into a state of shock. But now something had sparked in his eyes. He sat up straight in his chair, his face haggard and exhausted, but lined with determination.
At Gregson’s frown of disapproval, the apprentice turned toward Jayson. “I can’t stay here. I need to find my parents.” His voice broke slightly, but he crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.
Jayson grimaced and turned to Gregson.
The Legionnaire settled his helmet into place. “He’s twelve, of age. He can come if he wishes.”
Gregson appeared early the next morning with three other members of the Legion and two additional horses. Ara stood beside both Jayson and Corim outside the tavern as they rode up from the eastern road.The youngest appeared to be no more than eighteen.
“Gregson is a good man,” Ara said, “and a better Legionnaire than he believes himself to be.You’ll be safe with him.” She patted Corim on the shoulder, then stepped back as the group of Legion approached.
Gregson motioned to the three men who accompanied him.“This is Terson,my second,and Curtis and Ricks.”Terson gave them a curt nod; both Curtis and Ricks smiled. “I’ve brought you mounts.”
Jayson glanced at the two animals skeptically, but stepped forward. He’d ridden before, of course, but not for long distances and never on horses as fine as these. He helped Corim into the saddle first, the youth tense with fear and excitement, petting his mount’s neck after situating himself in the saddle, then swung himself onto his own horse.
Leaves of Flame Page 28