“What’s going on?” Siobhaen asked the moment Colin stepped out of the keeva, the rest of the clan chiefs and head shamans already out in the cavern. The sound of the drums, at least three times louder in the chamber than inside the small room where the meeting had been held, had driven the dwarren into a frenzy of activity. He could hear the clan chiefs shouting orders, Riders scrambling to obey, the rest of the dwarren sprinting to get out of the way. The sudden activity and the harsh boom of the drums had set the horses and gaezels on edge.
“The dwarren have been called to a Gathering.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked in frustration. A group of dwarren jostled past her and she frowned down at them in annoyance, one hand gripping her horse’s bridle as she stepped back.
“It’s like calling the Evant,” Eraeth said. “The dwarren only call a Gathering for something of extreme importance, something affecting the dwarren as a whole. Otherwise, the clan chiefs deal with it individually.”
“The presence of three clan chiefs in one territory was significant enough, but this will bring them all together.”
“Where? And over what?” Eraeth asked.
Colin paused and listened to the deep bass throat of the drums. “The call is coming from the Painted Sands Clan, the easternmost dwarren territory. But they’re meeting at the Sacred Waters. They’re headed toward the Confluence.”
As he said it, the heavy boom of the drums faded. The dwarren paused for a moment, then resumed their frantic activity at a growled shout from Quotl. At the same time, a smaller drum within the chamber picked up a different rhythm, the sound echoing through the hall and up the long corridor toward the surface.
“I still don’t understand,” Siobhaen muttered.
Colin ignored her, stepping forward into the edge of the confusion. The two Alvritshai, Colin, and the horses had been left by the keeva, practically unattended. He searched for Clan Chief Tarramic, found him arguing with two of the head shamans, all three of them gesturing toward the mouth of the corridor where the summons had originated.
Behind, he heard Eraeth speaking to Siobhaen in a soft voice.
“The Confluence is the religious center of the dwarren. It’s the heart of their culture. No Alvritshai has ever been there. It was the goal of the Trials that those in the ruling Houses made before the Accord put an end to it. The sons and daughters of the ascendant lords were sent into the plains in search of the ruanavriell, the Blood of Aielan. Most found tunnels on the plains that led to streams or pools of water suffused with the healing water’s runoff, but no one ever found the source.”
Colin thought of the vial of pink-tinged water that Aeren had gifted to his father, the result of Aeren’s own Trial, and felt a tug of bitterness, the emotion too used and worn to remain long. Whatever his father had used it for had been for naught once they reached the Ostraell.
Siobhaen considered what Eraeth had said, then stepped up to Colin’s side. “But it doesn’t make sense. The dwarren aren’t reacting to what we know has happened to the sarenavriell. They can’t be. The drums came before you emerged from the room with the clan chiefs.”
“You’re right. This is something else.” He hesitated, then added, “I think it has to do with the activity to the east.”
“What activity?” Eraeth demanded.
“Activity with the Shadows. Sightings of another creature they call the kell in larger and larger groups. And bands of Alvritshai or perhaps humans deeper in the Thalloran Wasteland.”
“Alvritshai in the Wastelands?” Siobhaen scoffed. “Impossible. We come from the north. We would never survive in the desert.”
“Are you so certain? You’ve adapted to the southern reaches of the mountains rather well.”
“Regardless,” Eraeth interjected before Siobhaen could respond, “we should send word back to the Evant. The Tamaell should be aware of the dwarren movements, especially on such a large scale.”
“Lotaern should be forewarned as well.”
Eraeth shot her a piercing look and Colin nearly sighed. Siobhaen would have to bring up Lotaern now, after the two of them had been grudgingly civil to each other for the past few days. But surprisingly, Eraeth said nothing.
“We aren’t going to get the chance to send word.”
Both Eraeth and Siobhaen reacted at the same time. “Why not?”
Colin let the rumble of thousands of hoofed feet pounding into stone answer for him. Both of the Alvritshai guards turned toward the sound as it filled the cavern with its echo, the drums that had called to the surface falling silent. The dwarren who filled the giant plaza suddenly parted, surging to either side and clearing the space before the main corridor opposite the waterfall. As they did so, the three clan chiefs stepped forward, the head shamans a few paces behind.
A moment later, the leading edge of Riders emerged from the corridor, standing five abreast. Row upon row of the gaezels appeared, the leading group swinging around in a wide circle to make room for those coming behind in a pattern that Colin had first seen on the plains above decades ago. As the wide plaza filled, the number of Riders growing large enough that Colin’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, he noted that not all of the gaezels bore dwarren. The group had brought down the mounts of those already below.
Tarramic raised a hand when the last of the Riders appeared, his other stroking the beads and feathers interlaced in his beard. Those milling about in the central plaza stilled, the cessation of sound spreading like a ripple on water from Tarramic’s position, although it was impossible for the hall to fall totally silent with the waterfall raging in the background.
As he began to speak, his rumbling voice filling the cavern, Siobhaen grasped Colin’s arm in irritation, forced him to look at her. “What is he saying?”
“He’s telling the clans-all of the clans present-to prepare to leave for the Sacred Waters. We’ll depart at dawn.”
“We can send word back to Caercaern then,” Eraeth said succinctly.
Colin shook his head. “No. We can’t.”
“Why not!” Siobhaen’s grip tightened.
He turned a somber gaze on her. “Because we won’t be traveling on the surface. We’ll be traveling underground.”
Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony of his House holdings in Caercaearn and stared out across the tiered city as it came to life. Lanterns were doused by patrols as the sun dawned on the horizon, gray light filtering through the peaks of the Hauttaeren Mountains where they dipped southward east of the city, purple with distance. The Sanctuary chimes rang utiern.
Aeren’s thoughts turned toward Lotaern and the Order of Aielan. He frowned, one hand rising to grip the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, a symbol of all that he had achieved while an acolyte within the Order, before his father and brother died on the battlefields of the plains and forced him to return to ascend as Lord of the Rhyssal House. If he had remained in the Order, would he support Lotaern now, in whatever power play he was making?
He didn’t know. It would have been a question he posed to Eraeth, a musing that the man who had practically raised him would have discussed with him in the early hours of dawn before the day began, but his Protector was not here. He felt the loss as a pang in his chest, a hollowness that he had not realized he would experience when he had given the Phalanx guardsman permission to accompany Colin.
Eraeth had been more of an integral part of his life than he had known.
A bitter, ironic smile turned his lips. He should have known. He could not remember a time when Eraeth had not been there, except for his years spent in the Sanctuary as an acolyte. His earliest childhood memory was of reaching for his father’s sword-the Rhyssal House sword-and having his Protector slap his hand away. He’d glared at the young guard who’d been hovering over him, even as he rubbed the ache from his hand, and vowed revenge. Days later, he’d lined the guard’s ceremonial helmet with black ink. It hadn’t quite dried yet when Eraeth had donned it for the Licaeta House’s arrival that afternoon.
It had taken two more years before he’d outgrown the pranks and come to a grudging acceptance of Eraeth’s presence at his side at all times. He’d experienced pain when he’d left the Protector at the doors of the Sanctuary to begin his studies there, but nothing like the loss he felt now. That pain had lasted a day, perhaps two, before he’d set it aside to focus on the Scripts and his lessons.
This pain was worse. Much worse. Eraeth had departed Artillien with Colin and Siobhaen over a month before and he still found himself turning to ask Eraeth a question at odd moments. He could feel the emptiness of the balcony and the room behind him even now.
He let his hand drop from the pendant and turned, stepping into the inner room where a servant had left a tray of fruit and a plate of scrambled eggs-a commoner’s dish he’d grown fond of while trading up and down the Provincial coast. The smell turned his stomach this morning, but he splashed a hot sauce imported from Andover over the eggs and forced himself to eat.
He had a meeting with Tamaell Thaedoren.
“Wait here. The Tamaell will be with you shortly.”
Aeren nodded and the servant who’d escorted him to the audience chamber departed, leaving the door open. Two of the White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s personal guard, were at the door, along with Aeren’s own escort. Hiroun stood with his back against the far wall of the corridor looking in. As the sole surviving Rhyssal guardsman from the journey to the White Wastes-aside from Eraeth, of course-Aeren had added him to his personal escort. He’d found the House Phalanx member to be competent at handling the nuisances of a lord’s schedule, as well as its abrupt changes.
At Hiroun’s questioning look, he smiled and shook his head, turning away to scan the audience chamber, noting the changes Thaedoren had made since he’d ascended the throne. His father, Fedorem, had kept the Tamaell’s chambers in Caercaern sparsely furnished, with chairs, tables, and side tables surrounded by a few urns, tapestries, and pedestals holding statuettes or other artwork. Most of the art had been chosen by Moiran, he’d learned. Those touches permeated the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien now.
Here in the highest tier of Caercaern, all traces of Moiran’s or Fedorem’s touch were gone. A wide oak table stained a dark color was surrounded by eight similarly stained chairs; a brass platter containing fronds of ferns and an arrangement of flowers filled its center. Similar arrangements lined the two side tables, interspersed with gold candleholders and assorted gold objects. Dried greenery hung from the walls, evergreen boughs tied at their base and fanned out to frame dangling pine cones or seed pods from the fall. The scent of cedar filled the room.
It did not feel like Thaedoren; the Tamaell had little patience for such things. Aeren sensed the new Tamaea’s hand in this. Reanne came from Licaeta, had been raised in the forested hills below the mountains, and from what Aeren had heard had not wanted to leave her own House lands. But a marriage into the ruling House of Resue would not have been something she could deny; nor could the Tamaea reside anywhere but Caercaern. It appeared that Reanne had made every effort to bring her homeland to Caercaern with her after the official bonding last summer.
“She has taken over everything here in Caercaern during the winter.”
Aeren turned to find Tamaell Thaedoren standing in the doorway, flanked by two White Phalanx.
The youth that had ridden hard with Aeren to meet with the dwarren and convince them that the Alvritshai intended peace those long years ago was gone. Aeren had thought the Tamaell Presumptive back then irresponsible, arrogant, and unable to set aside his bitterness over his relationship with his father to act in the best interests of the Alvritshai. He had been wrong.
Thaedoren had brought the dwarren to the battlefield against his father’s wishes, then worked with them to form the Accord after his father’s death. He had been instrumental in forging the alliance that had held for over a hundred years, and during those years had managed the Evant and the Alvritshai lords with a firm hand. Aeren had not agreed with every decision the Tamaell had made during that time, had been vehemently opposed to some on the Evant floor, but that did not lessen the respect he’d come to hold for him. The years, and the trials, had left their mark. The proud youth he’d first seen had been tempered, face scarred with the political and physical battles he’d waged since then. Weariness edged his eyes, lined his cheekbones, dulled his black hair. He smiled and motioned Aeren to take one of the chairs around the table.
“You’ve come to Caercaern early,” Thaedoren said, taking the opposite seat while his escort moved deeper into the room. “The Lords of the Evant are not expected back here for another three weeks.”
“There are a few issues that I felt needed to be brought to your attention immediately, before their arrival.”
Thaedoren’s smile faltered and he leaned back. “I thought it unlikely you came simply for a family visit.”
“I would have brought your mother and half brother if so. I left them in Artillien.” He met Thaedoren’s gaze. “For their own safety.”
Thaedoren tensed, the change nearly imperceptible. The smile was gone.
His gaze flicked toward the open door and the hall outside, then the two White Phalanx standing inside the room, before returning to Aeren. “Where is your Protector?”
Aeren grimaced. “He is with Shaeveran.”
Thaedoren hesitated, then motioned to one of the Phalanx. The guard strode to the door to the audience chamber and said something soft to those outside, then made to close the door. Before he could, Hiroun stepped forward into the room. The White Phalanx guardsman glanced toward Thaedoren, but at the Tamaell’s nod allowed the Rhyssal House guard to remain.
When the door had been closed, Thaedoren leaned forward. “What word do you bring? Why would my mother need to be kept safe in Artillien?” His tone was that of the Tamaell, demanding an answer.
Aeren drew in a deep breath to gather his thoughts, then said bluntly, “There are two threats-Lotaern and the Wraiths.”
Thaedoren didn’t react. “Go on.”
“Lotaern has always been a threat. He craves power, political power rather than strictly that which he wields as the Chosen of the Order of Aielan.”
Thaedoren waved a hand dismissively. “This is not new. He has gained much since the rule of my father, although I have tried to curb him where I could, with the help of you and our allies. Some would say that your attempts to block him come from a personal grudge against him, that it has nothing to do with the interests of the Alvritshai or the Evant. You defied him openly when Shaeveran brought us the Winter Tree, when he planted it in the marketplace without the consent of the Evant.”
The hint of warning in his voice could not be missed and Aeren bowed his head. “That was not planned.”
“So you have said before. And I’m certain my mother would back your claim. Regardless, it still gives credence to the accusations that you have your own agenda, your own purpose. And part of that purpose is to oppose Lotaern.”
Aeren’s head snapped up. “I oppose Lotaern because he strives to gain power that does not belong to him. The Order has no place within the Evant, and yet he wishes to be treated as a lord, as if he ruled his own House. He gained hold of his own Phalanx in the battlefields at the Escarpment with his Order of the Flame, and since then he has reached for more. He is now asked to attend all of the meetings of the Evant, has his own voice in those proceedings. He is a lord in every respect except title. That is what I oppose. There should be a division between the secular and the spiritual, between politics and religion.”
Thaedoren waited a moment, allowing Aeren to regain control. “I do not disagree, although there is little I can do about it. He gained this power by using the lords’ and the people’s fear of the Wraiths and the sukrael. But you already know this. What has he done now? How does he seek to grab more power?”
Aeren hesitated, suddenly realizing that Thaedoren hadn’t meant to goad him, but to warn him. If he presented his claim before the Lords of the Evant, he would receive the exact same argument in return.
He closed his eyes and forced his anger back. He wasn’t even certain where the anger had come from, except that he had not expected Thaedoren to argue with him. He’d come in search of an ally, one he felt he desperately needed. He had assumed Thaedoren would support him without question.
Perhaps Eraeth’s absence had affected him even more than he’d thought.
But when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the spray of greenery above Thaedoren’s head and his breath caught in his chest.
Reanne.
His gaze fell and he found Thaedoren watching him. Except now he noticed a difference, realized that this wasn’t the Thaedoren he’d known since his bonding with Moiran so many years before. Since then, they had been allies in nearly everything in the Evant, strategized together on some of the most important political issues brought before the lords. But he wasn’t dealing with Thaedoren alone anymore. He was dealing with Thaedoren and Reanne.
He’d known that the power within the Evant would shift with Thaedoren’s bonding, with the linkage between House Resue and Licaeta. He hadn’t realized Reanne would have begun wielding her influence over Thaedoren so fast. Licaeta had always supported Lotaern and the Order, had been one of the forces adamant about including the Chosen in the Evant’s proceedings.
“I believe Lotaern intends to use the Alvritshai people against us,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, even though tension thrummed through his body. He suddenly didn’t know what to expect from Thaedoren, didn’t know what side he would take. His approach to the Tamaell shifted subtly, even as he continued. “Are you aware that he has sent members of the Order of the Flame, with escorts, into the individual Houses? They have been traveling from town to town, village to village, stopping at the temples of Aielan and performing the rituals along with-or sometimes in place of-the local acolytes. He is reminding the people of their ties to Aielan and to the Sanctuary. To him.”
Thaedoren made to protest, but Aeren halted him with a raised hand. “Let me finish.
“This by itself would make me uneasy, but there is something else. Lotaern and Shaeveran have been working on a blade that will kill the sukrael and the Wraiths, a weapon that will give its wielder an advantage over them. Shaeveran thought he had finally created such a blade and revealed the knife to Lotaern. The Chosen did not react as he expected, so Shaeveran kept the knife himself. However, since then, Lotaern has managed to gain possession of it.”
He told Thaedoren of the trek to the sarenavriell in the White Wastes, of the discovery of the Well and the Wraith and sukrael that waited for them there. He told him of the Flame’s betrayal during the attack, and the subsequent theft of the knife by Vaeren and the others.
“I assume the knife has already been returned to Lotaern, although as far as I know he does not realize that it does not work as Shaeveran had hoped. Siobhaen knows this, but the rest of the Flame departed before the Wraith recovered and vanished. Shaeveran felt that the revelation of whatever has happened in the east was more important than retrieving the knife, and so he, Eraeth, and Siobhaen have gone to the dwarren to see what they know of the awakening of the Lifeblood there. He sent me here to forewarn you of Lotaern and the renewed threat from the Wraiths and sukrael. He doesn’t know what that threat is specifically, but the Wraiths have begun to act again.”
“Have they found a way around the Seasonal Trees? Will they be able to attack Alvritshai lands?” Thaedoren had straightened in his seat as Aeren spoke. But only when Aeren began speaking of the Wraiths and sukrael; he didn’t appear concerned over Lotaern’s theft of the knife.
“Shaeveran checked with the Winter Tree before coming to Artillien with the Order of the Flame and said that the protection from the Trees was still in effect. I don’t think we are under any immediate threat of attack.”
“But an attack could come?”
“He doesn’t see how. But the Wraith that attacked us in the White Wastes was clear: the Wraith’s armies are already moving.”
“What ‘armies?’ Did he mean the sukrael?”
Aeren shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither does Shaeveran. But he believes that it is more than simply the sukrael. He says that the dwarren have been warning us all for decades that there are more creatures involved in what they call the Turning than the sukrael.”
Thaedoren fell silent, his face pinched in thought. After a moment, he stood and began pacing along the length of the table, head bowed.
He halted at the far end of the room, his gaze locked on one of Reanne’s cedar wall hangings. “What does Shaeveran expect us to do about the Wraiths and this army?”
A flash of nausea and irritation passed through Aeren, making him grateful that Thaedoren was not watching. Thaedoren appeared to have dismissed Lotaern entirely. “He’s left that for us to decide. But I do not feel that we have enough information to make any decisions. We need to know what he discovers from the dwarren first, and what he finds to the east.”
“But if what the Wraith said is true, we may not have time to wait.”
“The Winter Tree will protect us.” He swallowed back the bitterness in this throat and tried one more time, watching Thaedoren carefully. “Lotaern is a more immediate threat, one that we can deal with now. We should concern ourselves with him.”
Thaedoren turned to face him, not bothering to hide his own irritation. “And what do you propose to do about him? Sending the Order of the Flame out to the temples is within his rights as Chosen of the Order. You cannot confront him over that.”
Despair slid into Aeren’s chest. “His action has made many of the lords uneasy,” he said. “I think that fact, coupled with the knife he stole from Shaeveran, may be enough to bring the Evant against him.”
Thaedoren looked doubtful. “How do you intend to do that?”
“I will meet with each of the Lords of the Evant individually, explain to them about the knife and the Order’s betrayal of Shaeveran at the sarenavriell, see how they react.
“And then I will confront Lotaern in the Hall of the Evant.”
It was his only option now. He couldn’t count on Thaedoren’s support any longer, not unequivocally. The Tamaell’s bonding with Reanne, with House Licaeta, would change everything.
He would have to warn Moiran. He wasn’t certain she’d believe him.
Thaedoren remained standing after Lord Aeren and his escort had departed, staring out into the corridor even though they had long since moved beyond sight.
One of his own escort shifted toward him in concern. “Tamaell?”
He raised a hand to cut him off. “Give me a moment, Naraen. I need to think.”
The White Phalanx guard took a step back but did not withdraw.
Thaedoren bowed his head. What Aeren had said regarding Lotaern was disturbing, but he thought the lord’s concern was misplaced and doubted his attempts to sway the lords would work. Lotaern had always been a thorn in their sides, from the moment Thaedoren’s father had given his tacit permission for the Chosen of the Order to maintain the Order of the Flame. Lotaern had taken that as implicit approval to expand the group, even before Fedorem’s death at the Escarpment.
But what Thaedoren had done had sealed the Flame’s position in the Order. He’d acknowledged the need for the Flame on the battlefield, had used them. After that, there had been no chance of demanding that the unit be disbanded. For better or worse, the Order of the Flame had become a permanent addition to the Order of Aielan, subject to the orders of the Chosen.
And Thaedoren had not regretted that decision. In the years that followed, with the resurgence of the sukrael under the direction of the Wraiths, the Order of the Flame had been invaluable. None of the other House Phalanx, nor the White Phalanx, had a hope of standing up to the sukrael. Only the powers wielded by the Flame had been able to keep the sukrael at bay, and even then.…
He shuddered at the memories. Those first forty years of his rule as Tamaell had been devastating, the sukrael’s attacks on the southern and eastern borders vicious and maddening in their randomness. There had been no method to their destruction, no way to prepare or to plan a defense. All of his training within the Phalanx and his years of service as caitan along the border fighting the dwarren with his brother had been useless. Their only effective tactic, the only useful strategy, had come from the Order of the Flame.
From Lotaern.
The fact that the Chosen now had a weapon that could be used against the sukrael and the Wraiths, no matter how he had come into possession of that weapon, could only make the Flame more effective.
And with word that the armies of the Wraiths were in motion, they would need the Flame-and Lotaern-even more. He would not relive those years of frustration fighting a force that attacked from the shadows and withdrew before the defenses could be rallied and the powers of the Flame brought to bear. Too many Alvritshai had been lost.
Naraen stirred and Thaedoren glanced up to find Reanne standing in the doorway, a startled look on her face, a large tallow candle wrapped in cloth clutched in her hands.
“Oh, I thought the meeting had ended,” she said. “I can return later.” But she did not move.
Thaedoren stood and smiled. “No need, Reanne. The meeting has ended. I was simply thinking.”
She hesitated, the almond-colored eyes he loved flaring with concern, then entered, moving toward one of the side tables. “You look troubled,” she said, as she unwrapped the candle and began adjusting the arrangement there. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
Thaedoren shifted to her side, but did not touch her, aware of Naraen at the door. “Lord Aeren was expressing concern over the Chosen.”
Reanne grimaced. “Again? I do not understand his hatred of the Chosen. He was an acolyte once, was he not? How can he turn his back on everything he was taught then?”
“He hasn’t. But he has to think of the needs of his House now as well.”
“He can do both. Look at my brother, Orraen. He runs Licaeta and remains faithful to Aielan.”
“Aeren is faithful to Aielan.”
“If he were faithful,” Reanne said, an edge to her voice, “he would support the Chosen in all that he does. Lotaern has done nothing but aid the lords in their defense against the sukrael.” She fussed with the candle and the cedar boughs, then sighed, head bowed. “But I know he is family.” She faced him with a wry smile. “Besides, the enmity between Aeren and Lotaern is not enough to trouble you this much, not when it is so old and worn. What other news did Lord Aeren bring?”
Thaedoren hesitated, but only because his bonding with Reanne was so new. They were still feeling each other out, even after a full winter together here in Caercaern, and the two years of courting that had come before that. But he wanted what his mother and Aeren shared, knew that they consulted each other on everything, including what occurred in the Evant.
“He brought me a warning from Shaeveran about the Wraiths.”
Reanne stilled. “What warning?” Fear tinged her voice.
“That they are moving. They’ve been manipulating the sarenavriell again. He didn’t have anything more substantial to tell us than that. Shaeveran has gone to investigate.”
“And the Winter Tree?”
“It still protects us.”
Reanne relaxed slightly. She turned back to the candle, fussed with the placement of the greenery again. “It makes Aeren’s disrespect of Lotaern even more suspicious, though. If the Wraiths are acting again, shouldn’t he be supporting the Chosen? We may need Lotaern. We may need the Flame, as we did before the protection of the Winter Tree.”
Thaedoren quelled a shudder at the reminder. But Reanne was right. The Alvritshai might need the Order and the Flame sometime soon, depending on what Shaeveran found. He needed to find out what Lotaern intended, regarding the knife and the news of the Wraiths’ movements. As Tamaell, he needed to protect the Alvritshai lands first and foremost. Perhaps it was time to deal with the tensions between Lotaern and Aeren once and for all. And time to prepare for whatever the Wraiths had planned for them next. He knew that Lotaern sought power, but that power might be better curbed by the Evant and the other lords if they saw Lotaern as a rival, as Aeren did.
“Naraen,” he said, glancing toward the guardsman even as he straightened. “Have word sent to the Chosen of the Order of Aielan that I wish to speak with him.”
“Immediately, Tamaell.”
“And summon my brother. Tell him the White Fox is needed once again in Caercaern.”
Lotaern stood beneath the massive branches of the Winter Tree, sunlight filtering down through the silvered leaves in dappled patches all around him. Stone paths converged here, meeting at a low circular table inscribed with quotes from the Scripts before winding away to other parts of the garden. Halfway between the entrance and the bole of the great tree, secluded and isolated by the city and the Sanctuary by the massive stone wall, it was one of Lotaern’s favorite places for contemplation.
And a simple place for a meeting away from prying eyes.
He moved to the edge of the heavy stone table, his gaze glancing at the inscriptions without reading them. One hand drifted toward the package in the left pocket of his robes, its weight more than physical, but he caught the motion and forced his hands to clasp before him. Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and murmured a soft chant, quieting his heart and the nervous trembling of his arms.
The prayer did little to still his troubled conscience.
“It belongs with the Order,” he muttered to himself. “He had no right to claim it for himself.”
“Talking to yourself, Chosen? Is that not one of the signs of corruption according to Aielan?”
Lotaern’s heart juddered in his chest at the familiar voice and he grimaced. He did not open his eyes and turn until it had calmed and he’d smoothed the lines of his face.
“Some of the most revered acolytes within the Order over the ages talked to themselves,” he said to the cloaked and hooded lord who stood at his back. “Even Cortaemall was said to rage within his own chambers.”
“So it is said.” Lord Orraen hesitated, then added, “What is it you wish to speak of?”
“We are waiting for another.”
Orraen shifted stances, tense now, wary, hand drifting toward the cattan Lotaern assumed was hidden beneath the cloak. His hood turned to one side, as if he were scanning the distance. “Who? I thought this meeting private. We should not be seen together. It is too soon to be revealed.”
Lotaern frowned. “You are too paranoid. The other will come cloaked and hooded, as you are. In fact, he has already arrived.”
Orraen turned as another figure appeared farther down one of the twisted paths, joining them, his boots crunching in the crushed stone of the walkway. He halted on the far side of the circular stone table, hood shifting back and forth between Lotaern and Orraen. Perhaps a hand taller than Lotaern, he carried himself with utter confidence, and when he spoke, his voice growled with age and unquestioned authority.
Lotaern wondered briefly if Orraen would recognize Lord Peloroun’s voice. He should. He’d heard it used often enough on the floor of the Hall of the Evant.
“You have news? Something worth risking our presence in Caercaern so early?”
“I do.”
“Did you know that Lord Aeren has also arrived early? If he discovers us here, weeks before our scheduled arrival, it will raise his suspicions. We have managed to keep our alliance secret thus far. I would hate to have it compromised for something trivial.”
Lotaern did not acknowledge the threat in the deep voice, nor the lacing of contempt. “This is not trivial. I believe we may finally have something to use against the Wraiths.”
He reached into his left pocket and pulled out the small leather pouch. Releasing the drawstrings, he removed the fine metal mesh wrapping the object inside and set it on the stone table. Unfolding the mesh, he revealed the wooden-bladed knife.
Both lords leaned forward for a closer look.
“What is it?” the younger Lord Orraen asked.
“A knife forged of heartwood, soaked in the ruanavriell, and tempered in the fires of Aielan. It was created with the sole intent to kill the sukrael and the Wraiths.”
“Does it work?”
Lotaern tried not to react to the doubt in Peloroun’s voice. “It was forged by Shaeveran, and it has killed. I can provide witnesses to attest to this fact, members of the Order of the Flame.”
“And Shaeveran gave this to you willingly? We all know where his loyalties lie.”
“Its sole purpose is to fight the sukrael and the Wraiths,” Lotaern said harshly, “and that battle falls to the Chosen, not Lord Aeren.”
Peloroun leaned back from the knife, his gaze falling on Lotaern. The Chosen could feel it, even though the lord’s face was hidden. He wondered if the lord could read the guilt inside him, if he could see how Lotaern had started at the slightest sound for days after Vaeren returned with the knife in hand. He’d expected Shaeveran to arrive, unannounced, at every waking moment since then, the human’s figure blurring into existence before him, demanding the return of the blade. He’d been so afraid that Shaeveran would take it that he’d kept it on his person ever since, even sleeping with it, starting awake at odd hours of the night, his heart pounding in his chest, terrified, until his hands closed on the fine mesh beneath his pillow.
But Shaeveran hadn’t come. Not yet. He’d begun to believe that the sukrael-tainted human wouldn’t come, that he’d finally seen the logic behind allowing the Order control of it.
Lotaern simply didn’t believe it completely.
“With this,” he said, swallowing back his doubts, “and with the Order of the Flame, we can bring the Wraiths to heel. Once they realize that they are not invulnerable, that they can die at our hands, we can control them. They will not be able to threaten Alvritshai lands again.”
“But we need them,” Orraen protested. “We can’t gain power in the Evant without them.”
“Agreed,” Peloroun said. “But what the Chosen is offering us is a way to limit their power once they have helped us achieve our goals. That has always been what has stopped us before. We’ve needed their strength, to break the Evant and drive the Alvritshai to us, but that strength has never had a leash.
“The knife, along with what the Chosen has promised his Order of the Flame can accomplish, may be that leash. A thin leash, granted, but a leash.”
“We need only trick the Wraiths into donning the collar,” Lotaern said.
“Leave that to me,” Peloroun said, his voice soft.