He’d moved into the periphery of Colin’s sight, and Colin saw him shudder. “I went there with them, of course. We tried to use Aielan’s Light against them, and it worked to some extent. The Light burns them, harms them. But to be effective we needed to prepare, which meant we needed to know where the sukrael were going to attack ahead of time. If we arrived after the attack had begun, the sukrael would simply flee before we could bring Aielan’s Light to bear.” He shook his head, mouth pulled down in a grim frown. “It was hideous: the loss of life, the panic of the people within the sukrael’s hunting ground, the uncertainty. The Order couldn’t offer anyone solace.”
He turned to look at Colin directly. “You brought them solace with the Winter Tree. You allowed them to return to their land and resume their lives. But the way in which you brought the Winter Tree.” His face tightened with anger. “You should have brought it to me. I should have been the one to present it to the Evant. Its power obviously fell within the domain of the Order, not the Evant, not Lord Aeren nor the Tamaell. I should have been given time to plan, to find the best location for its planting. It should never have been placed in the center of Caercaern, in the marketplace!”
Colin’s gaze had dropped from the bird toward Lotaern. He didn’t like the assumption of authority he heard in the Chosen’s voice, nor the fact that Lotaern felt his authority rose above that of the Tamaell. “The placement in the marketplace was a mistake. I did not realize that it would quicken so fast.”
“That doesn’t matter now. It was planted in the marketplace, and has since been walled off, the plaza now a garden sanctuary maintained by the Order.”
Controlled by the Order, Colin thought. Aeren had told him how Lotaern had sealed access to the Tree from the Evant, how he’d established Wardens to care for it even as the Flame guarded it and kept it from the Alvritshai, all with the sanction of the Evant, most of whose lords welcomed and feared the Tree’s power at the same time. It had become another way for Lotaern to control the Alvritshai, and through the lords, the Evant.
If Lotaern expected Colin to apologize for bringing the Tree to Aeren first, or to the Tamaell, he would be disappointed.
They heard Vaeren’s approach, his boots thumping through the chamber, moving swiftly, accompanied by the footfalls of another. Both the Chosen and Colin turned as the caitan of the Order of the Flame appeared in the foyer, his gaze flickering with irritation before he caught sight of them near the bowl. He and the woman, Siobhaen, approached, both dressed in the armor of the Flame, wrists banded with metal, the heavy cloth over their chests emblazoned with the stylized white flames of Aielan, boot heels harsh on the flagstone floor, although Colin noticed that Siobhaen’s tread was much softer than Vaeren’s. Siobhaen’s long black hair was pulled back into a braid behind her head and she caught Colin with a sharp, searching glare, her light brown eyes flicking up and down once. Colin felt as if he’d been sized up and dismissed in the space of a heartbeat and straightened in indignation. Her features were narrow, made more severe by having her hair pulled back, but softened by small silver earrings.
Vaeren had changed into different armor as well, something more suited to traveling long distances. His hair had been tied back with a length of leather. “I’ve ordered the acolytes to bring horses to the main plaza for us, readied with supplies,” he said, ignoring Colin completely.
Before Lotaern could answer, two more members of the Flame appeared. Dressed like Vaeren, they came up behind the caitan and nodded toward Lotaern formally. The Chosen had straightened, assuming the mantle of his power. They were younger than Vaeren, but obviously related, their eyes the same dark gray.
“Is everything prepared?”
“No,” Siobhaen said. “Not yet. There is still one more thing to do.”
When the brothers shot her a curious glance, she moved toward the bowl, knelt on one knee, and lowered her head. Colin could hear her murmuring beneath her breath.
When he looked up, he caught the brothers rolling their eyes. Vaeren gave them a look and with sudden solemnity they both knelt.
A moment later, Siobhaen reached forward and smudged soot along her cheek, the two brothers following suit. Then all three rose.
“Now we are ready,” Vaeren said.
The entire group moved to the main entrance, acolytes pulling open the doors as they approached. Gusts of winter air pushed through, and Colin hoped that the acolytes had thought to include warmer clothes in his own set of supplies. Even as he thought it, one of the acolytes stepped forward and presented him with a second satchel. Inside, he found clothing of an Alvritshai cut and the Order’s colors, a bedroll, bowls and utensils, and other assorted tools for the road.
He pulled the clothing free. “I’ll need to change,” he said to Vaeren and Lotaern.
The Chosen motioned him away. As the acolyte showed him to a room, he and Vaeren spoke to each other quietly, too low for Colin to catch.
A few minutes later, he joined the Order of the Flame outside in the Sanctuary’s plaza, the stone obelisks surrounding them on all sides. The Alvritshai clothing fit, even though Colin fidgeted with its unfamiliar cut, a little too tight in the shoulders for his taste.
Lotaern had just finished a blessing, the Flame members rising. He turned to Colin as they mounted the waiting horses. “Find out what’s causing the storms, Shaeveran.”
Colin didn’t answer the command, merely swinging up into the saddle of his own horse. He remembered when the Alvritshai had been afraid of horses, when he and his family had first ventured onto the plains and met Aeren and Eraeth.
The Chosen backed away, his acolytes following him into the protection of the door’s alcove, away from the wind.
“Why are we leaving in the middle of the night?” one of the brothers asked, barely above a whisper. “Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”
The other brother shrugged.
Colin turned to Vaeren.
“Where to first?” the caitan asked. “Rhyssal House lands to see Lord Aeren?”
“No,” Colin said. “To the Winter Tree. I need to verify that the Trees have not been affected.”
Vaeren’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded.
They wound their way through the darkened streets of Caercaern, lit sparsely by lanterns or candlelight from high windows, Colin tugging the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands against the chill. Vaeren took the lead with Siobhaen, the two brothers trailing behind. Only a few Alvritshai were out at this hour, hurrying from one spot of warmth to another, bundled up and hunched into their clothes. No one paid them any attention. Most windows were dark, but a few of the shops they passed, mostly bakeries by the strong smell of bread that drifted from them, showed chinks of lantern light. In a few hours, the streets would be bustling with the thousands of Alvritshai that lived in the city, thronged with pull-carts and wagons, the citizens dressed in the loose clothing and conical straw hats of commoners. He glanced toward the third tier, where most of the lords kept their own houses when the Evant was in session, then higher to where the Tamaell resided in the highest of the tiers, towering over the city, but the buildings were lost in the darkness. Then he turned his attention south. The storm he had seen from the top of the Sanctuary had moved too far away to be visible.
Ahead, Vaeren and Siobhaen slowed and he shifted in his saddle, looking up to where the Winter Tree towered above them. They’d reached the wall that surrounded it, had stopped at one of the gates. Vaeren spoke to the Warden who responded to his knock on the heavy wooden door.
The door opened and they ducked through the stone arc of the wall into what had once been Caercaern’s largest marketplace.
Colin remembered what the plaza had looked like the first time he’d been here with Aeren and Eraeth. It had stretched nearly the entire width of the tier, had been twice as long, the colonnades of the Hall of the Evant on the far side appearing distant. And it had been packed with people, tents, wagons tilted onto their sides, blankets sprea
d onto the wide flagstones, and tables of every variety of produce and goods imaginable. It had taken Aeren and his escort nearly an hour to work their way across to the Hall.
Now, the entire area had been transformed to deal with the Winter Tree. The flagstones had been ripped up and soil carted in and packed down to allow for a garden. Trees had been planted on the outer fringes near the wall, but as soon as they stepped inside, Colin could see that only grass grew beneath the shadow of the Winter Tree’s branches, the lowest of which were too high to be reached even by ladder. The Tree obscured the Hall of the Evant, and in the darkness beneath it Colin could barely make out the wide trunk and its gnarled roots. But he could hear the wind in the branches above, thrashing in the leaves, and he could see where the Wardens had established crushed stone paths beneath those branches, winding out and around sculptures of stone and statues, benches and small basins of water.
The gate closed behind them, the Warden who’d opened it appearing nervous. Vaeren turned toward Colin. “What do you need to do?”
“I need to touch the Tree. And I’ll need some time.”
He nodded, then turned to the waiting Warden. “We’ll leave the horses here. Fetch us lanterns, and inform the head Warden that we’ll be at the bole.”
The Warden scurried off; without a word Siobhaen dismounted and headed toward the center of the gardens, the rest following suit.
The branches of the Tree closed in overhead almost immediately, the thrashing of the leaves muted to a soothing rustle. Wood creaked and groaned, but the deeper they moved beneath the Tree’s massive protection, the fainter those sounds grew. The metallic taste of winter tinged each breath, mingling with the acrid and earthy smell of bark as they drew nearer the bole.
Halfway to the trunk, a group of five Wardens arrived with lanterns, the footing becoming treacherous as roots began to break through the earth. The procession-strangely formal now-edged through the roots as they grew more and more tangled, increasing in thickness until they were the width of Colin’s thigh. A moment later, they reached the base of the Tree.
They stood on the root system and stared up into the latticework of branches above, barely within the reach of the lantern’s light. Colin could see the awe of the members of the Flame as they searched the heights, could feel the Tree itself pulsing beneath his feet. He drew its scent in with every breath. The Wardens were unaffected, waiting calmly to either side.
“Wait here,” Colin said. He could have reached down and touched the Tree through the roots at his feet, but he wanted to be closer, nearer to its heart. He left his staff behind, waved away the offering of one of the lanterns, then began climbing the roots in front of him. The satchel proved an annoyance, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the knife it held behind. He clutched the dry, dark bark, and scrambled higher until he’d moved beyond the lantern light, until the bole shot skyward before him. The scent of the Tree enfolded him here, the air no longer chill with winter, as if the Tree were generating its own heat, like that generated by peat in a bog. He settled into position, then reached out and placed both of his hands against the rough bark of the bole and closed his eyes.
The essence of the Tree wrapped around him instantly. Like that of his staff or the heartwood given to him by the Ostraell, it throbbed with life, but this was a thousand times more powerful. It overwhelmed him instantly and drew him in, recognizing him, his taste. He may have gasped; he couldn’t tell, his awareness of the outside world and his body subsumed by the sudden sensations of the Winter Tree itself. Wind lashed at its branches, tossing the leaves to and fro, the trunk swaying beneath the tumult. Far beneath, the roots dug deeper and deeper into the earth and stone of the mountain, reaching for underground streams and the nutrients of the soil; reaching also for the heady pulse of power that Colin recognized as Aielan’s Light deep within the mountain. The Tree sensed that power, strained for it, recognized it as a part of itself.
All of those were outside influences. In its heart, at its core, Colin settled into the surge of sap, the fluid rush of the Tree’s life. It enfolded him with warmth, with a shuddering, coruscating sensation of motion, smothering him from all sides. He let it course through him, reveled in its amber strength, its power tinged with the white of Aielan’s Light and the rose of the Confluence, and then he stretched out along that power and tested its reach. He searched for flaws, for signs of disease or weakness, reaching farther and farther, to the fringes of the Tree itself, stretching out beyond the confines of Caercaern, out into the surrounding lands where the power of the Winter Tree held sway. The farther from the Tree he roamed, the weaker that power became, but he didn’t sense any damage.
Then, near the edge of the Tree’s influence, out well beyond the shadow of the mountains, he felt the touch of the Winter Tree’s siblings. To the southwest, on the plains, he tasted the sugary sap of the Autumn Tree, planted outside the human city of Temeritt; to the southeast, the golden savor of the Summer Tree flooded his senses from the central plains of the dwarren, beyond the Ostraell. He explored their tastes for a long moment through their connections to the Winter Tree, searching them for damage as well. He couldn’t be as thorough from such a distance, but he could not sense any disease, and so he drew back, pulled himself back to the heart of the Winter Tree, back to Caercaern. He allowed the flow of the Tree’s life to soothe him for a long moment, then separated himself from its embrace, not without effort, and back into his own body.
He sucked in a sharp breath as a wave of dizziness enfolded him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. A moment later he felt the bark of the Tree pressing into his forehead, and he pulled back. He sagged down to his knees, and as he sank, he turned, letting his hands fall to his sides.
The sun had risen. It streamed down through the branches on the outskirts of the Tree, the area around the bole still shrouded in darkness, the leaves and branches above too thick to allow the light to penetrate here. He could see the lanterns of the Warders below, could see the members of the Flame as well. They appeared distant. He hadn’t realized he’d climbed so high.
One of them pointed toward him and he heard a faint shout, filled with concern. Two of the Wardens began making their way frantically up the roots.
“I’m fine,” he called out and waved, but they didn’t slow.
He watched them ascend, not moving, not knowing if he could move. His arms hung at his sides, hands pooled in his lap where he sat. The life-force of the Tree throbbed through his back. He felt distant and lethargic.
“Shaeveran!”
He glanced down, saw one of the Wardens scrambling up the last stretch of root to his position. The youth’s face was wide with panic and fear and Colin suddenly remembered what Lotaern had said back at the Sanctuary, that most of the acolytes and the Flame revered him.
“So different from the reactions of my own kind,” Colin muttered to himself. He hadn’t journeyed through human lands in decades. His name was legend there as well, but tainted by fear and suspicion. At least along the coasts.
“Shaeveran! Are you all right?” The youth reached Colin and fell to his knees, one hand on Colin’s shoulder, the other checking for damage. His fingers brushed Colin’s forehead and came away sticky with blood. He must have scraped his head against the bark of the Tree without realizing.
The Warden frowned and dug in his pocket for a cloth.
“I’m fine,” Colin said, pushing the cloth away in irritation as the Warden dabbed at his forehead. “I’m just… exhausted. I shouldn’t have spent so much energy on the Tree after working with Aielan’s Light.”
The second Warden arrived. “Is he hurt?” he gasped, out of breath from his climb. This Warden was older, his face red from exertion, but his tone was more practical.
“He says he’s simply exhausted, but he’s bleeding-”
“It’s just a scrape,” Colin said, then gathered himself and rose, using the Tree behind him for support. “We should rejoin Vaeren.”
The older Warden scann
ed his forehead, then nodded. “Very well.”
They descended. Colin regained his strength as they climbed down, although he did require the Wardens’ help at one treacherous point where the roots were nearly vertical for a stretch; he didn’t want to risk expending energy shifting into a younger form. By the time they’d reached the pooled lantern light of Vaeren’s group, he’d recovered enough to glare when Vaeren demanded, “What happened?”
“Nothing. I overextended myself, but I’m fine.” He reached for his staff, took strength from the life-force pulsing inside as he gripped the wood.
“And the Tree?” Vaeren glanced toward the thick bole before them, expression tight with concern.
“The Trees are fine. Whatever is causing the storms hasn’t affected them at all. They’re still protecting the Alvritshai, dwarren, and human lands from the Wraiths and the Shadows.”
Everyone, including the Wardens, relaxed perceptibly. The young Warden heaved a sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks to Aielan.
“Then what next?”
Colin began moving back toward the gates, picking his way carefully through the tangled roots, using his staff for support.
“Now,” he said, grunting as his foot slid stepping down from one rounded knob to another. The others followed him, spread out to either side. “Now we see Lord Aeren.”
He clutched the satchel containing the knife to his side as he said it. He didn’t trust Vaeren and the Flame. He didn’t trust Lotaern.
Which meant he needed someone in the group on his side.
It was winter, so only the Tamaell resided in Caercaern. The rest of the Lords of the Evant had withdrawn to their own House lands, to ride out the winter months in the confines of their own homes. Including Aeren.
Vaeren led the small group down from the heights of Caercaern into the surrounding hills and woodland, the outer wall of the city falling away and obscured by trees almost instantly. For a brief moment, Colin stared back at the expanse of Caercaern. Sunlight glared off the white-gray stonework, off the intricate architecture, the subtle lines of the buildings slanting inward and up, giving the impression that the entire city was somehow stretching toward the heavens. The Winter Tree reached for those heights as well, its leaves of silver flickering brightly as they were riffled by the breeze. Behind, spray from the many cascading falls behind the city drifted and sparkled, catching the light and refracting it into rainbow prisms.
Leaves of Flame ch-2 Page 6