“Many chose that path after the Escarpment and the banishment.”
“He also claims that many Alvritshai abandoned their House and lands altogether.”
The Protector shifted awkwardly, then said grudgingly, “It’s not something that is spoken of. No lord wants to admit that the members of his House would rather choose exile than to serve beneath him. And most Alvritshai refuse to speak of the khai-roen at all. I’m surprised Vaeren mentioned it.”
Colin began climbing the rocks back to the roadway, Eraeth reaching forward to pull him up the last stretch. “I think Vaeren nearly chose that path for himself.”
Petraen emerged from the hut and gave a shout, catching their attention as both Boreaus and the last Phalanx appeared, the Flame with a few squirrels held by the tail, Aeren’s guardsman with a rabbit and some type of fowl.
“Looks like we’ll have fresh meat tonight,” Eraeth said.
They headed toward the hut as Aeren and Siobhaen joined the returning hunters. Petraen clapped his brother on the back and took the squirrels from him, the two settling in near the stream with the rest of Aeren’s Phalanx to gut them for roasting. Siobhaen sent the two brothers a sharp look of disapproval as they bantered with the Rhyssal House men, but they pointedly ignored her. After a moment, she shook her head and entered the hut.
“They don’t act like Alvritshai,” Colin said, keeping his voice low, his eyes on the two brothers.
Eraeth grimaced. “They are more Alvritshai than you realize. You’ve dealt mostly with the Lords of the Evant and their Phalanx. The lords are more rigid and formal than the commoners, and more guarded with their emotions. And the Phalanx are trained to formality, since they will be serving their lord and representing the House. The commoners are much more… relaxed.”
Colin smiled. “I see.”
Eraeth scowled. “They’re still more respectable than you humans!”
“Who’s more respectable than humans?” Aeren asked sharply. He’d waited for them at the door of the hut as they approached and now shot Eraeth a look similar to the one Soibhaen had given the brothers earlier.
Eraeth drew himself up stiffly. “No one is more respectable than humans, Lord Aeren.”
Aeren glared at him with suspicious reproach, then nodded. “Very well.” He gave Eraeth one last look, then pushed through the hut’s door and inside.
Vaeren and Siobhaen had already split the room into two sections, the saddlebags of the Flame on one side, room for the Rhyssal House on the other. Vaeren had prepared the flames for spits, the fire crackling, embers fluttering upward as he tossed on another few branches. The smell of smoke had permeated the entire hut, the heat driving out the musty dampness of the stone.
Aeren, Eraeth, and Colin began settling in on the Rhyssal House side, laying out pallets on the stone benches, Eraeth sitting, legs crossed beneath him, and removing his cattan. He began cleaning the blade with a soft cloth, Vaeren watching from the far side of the fire. Siobhaen removed a small dagger and whetstone, the scrape of metal against stone echoing harshly in the small hut. The rest of the group returned, Petraen and Boreaus bearing dinner already on spits. They set them over the fire, Petraen retrieving the bread they’d been given and handing it out, Boreaus turning the spitted animals.
The enticing scent of roasted meat filled the room, thick and heavy, making Colin’s stomach growl. He took the bread from Petraen as he passed and bit into it. He leaned back against the stone of the wall and closed his eyes as he chewed, listening to the schick of Siobhaen’s dagger, the banter between Petraen and the rest of the Rhyssal Phalanx, the softer conversation between Aeren and Eraeth.
Then, when the sounds and smells and warmth had almost lulled Colin into a light sleep, the flutter of a pipe broke through the general noise.
Colin opened his eyes to find Petraen sitting across the fire from him, the pipe drawn to his mouth, his fingers playing lightly over the holes down its length. He ran through a series of runs, the pipe’s sound hollow and playful, lower in tone than Colin would have expected. At the spit, Boreaus shook his head and sprinkled some kind of herb onto the charring meat. The fire sizzled as grease dripped from the carcasses.
Warmed up, Petraen hesitated, then launched into something more serious, the tune vaguely familiar.
Siobhaen stopped sharpening her dagger, set it aside, and began singing.
Colin shifted forward as her voice and that of the pipe drowned out the fire and the cooking meat. The tale of how Aielan’s Light had guided a grieving young woman to her lover’s side on an ancient battlefield, only to find him still alive though gravely wounded, unfolded slowly, hauntingly.
When the last notes faded, the woman having saved her lover’s life, everyone in the hut sat motionless, staring at Siobhaen. Colin’s heart ached with the woman’s struggle, but nothing rivaled the shock he felt and saw on the others’ faces at the raw emotion that had been in Siobhaen’s voice. This was not the Siobhaen that Colin had known on the journey to Artillien, or the days since.
“That was excellently sung,” Aeren said quietly, breaking the silence.
Siobhaen tensed, as if suddenly realizing what she’d done. Colin thought she would draw the mantle of the hard-nosed Order of the Flame about her again, withdrawing herself from the group, but instead she relaxed, her shoulders dropping.
“Thank you,” she said, nodding toward Aeren with a small smile. “Alfaen’s tale has always been one of my favorites.”
“Because Aielan guided her?”
“No. Most of the songs of the battles and times before the Abandonment of the northern reaches are about death and grief and loss. This one is different. She finds Torrain alive, in time to save him.”
They considered this in silence, and then Boreaus swore, lurching forward to grab one of the spits and jerk it from the fire before one of the blackened squirrels could slide into the flames. He hissed as the heat seared his hands, shifting the hot spit from one hand to the other until it cooled enough he could tear a piece of the meat off and taste it.
He grinned. “Time to feast.”
He began slicing chunks free and handing them out, Vaeren moving to grab the second spit. Colin nearly moaned as he bit into the succulent meat, juice dribbling down his chin and through his fingers. He began sucking his fingers clean when he suddenly noticed everyone watching him, Vaeren with thinly veiled disgust, Petraen and Boreaus with grins.
They were all eating meticulously, almost formally, picking the bones clean with their fingers or the blades of small knives, even the two brothers. No juice dripped from their chins, although it did glisten in the firelight on their fingers.
Colin slurped his last finger clean noisily. “I refuse to be anything but human,” he said.
Vaeren glanced toward Aeren and Eraeth, both with studiously blank faces. “I don’t understand why you associate with him.”
Eraeth shrugged. “He has his uses.”
Aeren smiled as Colin gaped in mild affront, but then his face turned serious. “You said we were close to the pass. I have never heard of this pass, nor of this tunnel into the Alvritshai halls beneath the mountain. Caercaern was supposed to be the only path from the northern reaches to the south over the Hauttaeren Mountains.”
Everyone turned to Colin. “The Tamaells since before the time of the Abandonment have kept the secret of this one entrance well. It has a rather dark and deadly history. I found mention of it in some of the oldest records in the Sanctuary, in journals and pages that nearly crumbled apart in my hands. I’m not even certain that Tamaell Thaedoren knows of it.”
“The secret has been kept from even the Evant?” Aeren asked with a frown.
“As far as I can tell. Its purpose, and what it was used for, is not something that the Tamaell or the lords of that time would have been proud of.”
“What was it used for?” Vaeren asked bluntly.
Colin shifted where he sat, frowning as he thought back to reading those pages, sitting in th
e depths of the Sanctuary’s archives, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of dusty books and loose sheaves of writings. “It was carved out of the mountain in an attempt to betray Cortaemall, the Tamaell of the time.”
One of the Rhyssal Phalanx gasped. “But Cortaemall was one of the most revered Tamaells of that age!”
Aeren nodded thoughtfully. “Which is perhaps why what happened at the pass has been suppressed.”
“Tell us what happened,” Vaeren said.
Colin hesitated. Even though there were no windows, he could sense that night had fallen, that it was already late. “It’s a long story.”
“You had us stop early,” Vaeren countered.
Colin sighed. “Very well.” He leaned back against the wall and gathered his thoughts as one of the Rhyssal guardsmen rose and left to check up on the horses outside. The frigid night air gusted into the hut, set the flames of the fire flapping, but no one stirred even when the guardsman returned.
“Gaurraenan’s Pass was named after a Lord of the Evant,” he began, letting his voice lower as he shifted into a more comfortable position. “A lord with ambition and patience. He wanted his House to rise within the Evant, wanted to become Tamaell.”
“Like Khalaek,” Eraeth interjected.
Colin turned in surprise, but Eraeth wasn’t looking at him. The Protector was watching Vaeren, the caitan of the Flame gazing down at his hands where he sat against the wall across the fire with a frown.
“Yes, but Cortaemall had been Tamaell for a long time and was loved and revered by the Alvritshai. Living in the halls beneath Caercaern, Cortaemall held dominion over all of the northern reaches. The Alvritshai prospered beneath his hands, the area that we now call the White Wastes producing enough food for the hundreds of thousands of Alvritshai that lived there. The great glaciers were far to the north, and the lands abounded with streams and springs, the growing seasons were long, the plains and lakes and forests teeming with herds of deer and antelope, with rabbit and fowl, and with the shaggy beasts called bison.
“Gaurraenan saw no support within the Evant for his ambitions, but as I said, he was a patient man. He knew there was no way to convince the other lords that Cortaemall should be overthrown, knew that the only way to seize the Evant and rule was through subterfuge. He began to ingratiate himself with his fellow lords, rising slowly but surely through the ranks of the Hall of the Evant, closer and closer to the Tamaell. But he knew that no matter how high he rose, he could never become Tamaell with Cortaemall and his sons in power. That’s not how the Evant and the ascension of the Tamaell works. Cortaemall’s House must fall before a new House can ascend. And so he began the tunnel.
“Within the depths of his halls within the Hauttaeren, he discovered a warren of natural caverns that led to the southern side of the mountains. He decided to finish those tunnels, giving himself passage to the south, and so hired hundreds of masons and miners to widen the passages near his own halls and carve out an exit on the far side, all under the pretense of building a new manse on the flatlands beneath his mountain stronghold. And he built that manse, using the stone from the mines. But the real purpose was the tunnel, wide enough to carry his Phalanx and their supplies southward and up to the pass. None of the other lords would suspect him of tunneling to the south. Everything the Alvritshai needed was there in the northern reaches, and the mountains were too difficult to navigate, the tunnels beneath Caercaern-the only known routes southward-were controlled by Tamaell Cortaemall. The glaciers had not yet begun to creep into the northern reaches to force the Alvritshai off of their lands.
“So Gaurraenan carved his own path to the south, with the intent to take his Phalanx through the tunnels into the southern lands, skirt the mountains, and then back into the depths of Caercaern through the back entrance in secret. He could attack Cortaemall from behind, catch his Phalanx and his House unprepared, kill Cortaemall and his entire family-his wife, daughter, and sons-and ascend in the Evant to take his place.”
Vaeren was shaking his head. “It wouldn’t work. The southern entrance to Caercaern would have been closed and sealed from the inside. Gaurraenan would never have been able to open the doors from the south.”
“There are always those within the House who will betray it and their lord,” Eraeth said quietly. “For wealth, for position, or for simple spite.”
Everyone shifted uncomfortably, but Colin simply nodded. “Gaurraenan found a few within Cortaemall’s Phalanx who were willing to open the seal of the southern portal.”
Petraen huffed in disbelief. “Betrayed by his own Phalanx?”
“It was a different time, remember,” Aeren said. “The Houses were much larger than they are now. There were more Alvritshai then, at least ten times as many as there are now. The Phalanx of each House was larger as well. The caitans and the lords of the Houses would not have been familiar with the individual members of their own Phalanx, not as they are now. I wonder more how Gaurraenan kept his tunnel secret. Building the manse was a nice subterfuge, but what of the masons and miners who built the tunnel? One of them would have said something.”
“Gaurraenen had them killed. As soon as the tunnel was finished, his Phalanx slaughtered them beneath the mountains. Those who worked on the tunnels had lived there since the tunnel was begun. None of them saw the light of day again. Gaurraenen blamed their deaths on a collapse, and ceased construction on the manse immediately out of respect, although it was nearly finished by then.”
Petraen scowled as he reached forward to lay another chunk of wood on the fire.
“So what happened?” Siobhaen asked. “We all know Cortaemall wasn’t killed by Gaurraenan.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Colin closed his eyes. He sat in silence for a long moment, absorbing the heat from the fire, feeling the chill embedded in the stone at his back, the scent of roast meat still thick in the air. “The reason Cortaemall was so revered, and remained in power for so long, is because he wasn’t stupid.” He opened his eyes, caught Siobhaen and Vaeren watching him closely. “He knew what Gaurraenan intended, knew of his pretense with the manse, of his tunnel, of his betrayal.”
Siobhaen flinched and looked away, troubled. Vaeren’s eyes narrowed, creases appearing above the bridge of his nose.
Colin let his gaze drop. “After years upon years of gathering influence within the Evant, rising to its highest ranks, the southern tunnel now complete, Gaurraenan finally felt ready to become Tamaell. He sent word to his contacts within Cortaemall’s House, and prepared his Phalanx for the long march to the southern pass. They left at the end of autumn, after the Evant had been called to a close, but before the snows would make traveling the pass with an army at his back impossible. When they finally emerged from the dark depths into the pass, they found it free of snow, the southern lands waiting for them. Gaurraenan took this as a sign, a good omen, and so he marched east. The weather held, and emboldened, he pushed on to the southern entrance of Caercaern.
“It was nothing like the Caercaern of today. There was no city, no walls and tiers and marketplaces and halls. It was simply a tower, where the Sanctuary now sits, on a ledge of stone that jutted out from the side of the mountains behind, a ledge barely large enough to hold two thousand men. On the first day of winter, with dark clouds beginning to emerge from the west, Gaurraenan and his men scrambled up the slopes to this ledge, and found the doors to the entrance at the base of the tower firmly closed. Nailed to those stone doors with iron spikes were the men of Cortaemall’s Phalanx who’d betrayed him, the men Gaurraenan had bribed into opening the seal to let him in.
“When he saw this, Gaurraenan felt true fear in his heart for the first time. He’d planned so well, been so patient-he’d thought nothing could go wrong. But seeing the Alvritshai nailed to the doors, seeing their dried blood staining the stone, his confidence shattered. Panic gripped him. He turned to order his Phalanx back to his own halls, back to the pass and the tunnels and safety-
“But it was already too late
. From the height of the ledge, from the base of the tower, he turned to find Cortaemall and his House Phalanx emerging from the dense forest below. Ten thousand strong, against Gaurraenan’s six thousand, Gaurraenan realized that Cortaemall meant for there to be no survivors.
“There was only one chance of escape: the passage he had carved beneath his own House.
“Gathering his forces, he charged Cortaemall’s men before they could completely organize on the field below, surprising the Tamaell by giving up his advantage on the heights. Cortaemall had thought Gaurraenan would keep hold of the tower and defend the ledge to the last man. He had not planned on Gaurraenan fleeing. But he met the charge and when Gaurraenan gained enough ground to retreat to the west, Cortaemall hounded him with his own men the entire length of the Hauttaeren Mountains. It was no true battle, only skirmishes as one force caught up with the other before it could break away. Thousands fell, on both sides, as Gaurraenan’s flight grew more and more desperate. But Cortaemall was relentless, outflanking his army, ambushing them in close valleys, hitting them as they forged rivers and streams, harrying them without end. Until finally Gaurraenan reached the pass that led to his tunnel. He could taste the safety of the passage, even though the pass was now choked with snow. He could smell the darkness of the stone depths of his own halls.
“But Cortaemall was waiting for him. He’d brought the remains of his army, still seven thousand strong, to the pass. And as Gaurraenan and his men broke at the sight of the tunnel entrance-so close-Cortaemall fell upon him.
“It was a vicious battle, Gaurraenan driven mad by desperation, Cortaemall murderously calm. Blood stained the snow of the pass a bright, gaudy red in the pale sunlight of that winter’s day, and then the snow and blood churned to mud, trampled as the battle surged back and forth across the narrow valley. Gaurraenan arrived at the pass with only three thousand men remaining, and a thousand of those died within the first hour. The rest were whittled down to a mere five hundred, then a hundred, until those that were left were surrounded completely by Cortaemall’s Phalanx. And they were still a thousand paces from the tunnel entrance.
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