“‘Someone’ needs to go to the Source and restore the balance,” Colin muttered as he stalked away from Terra’nor and the Well and into the forest beyond, time slowed once again. “Guess who that’s going to be?”
He’d been on his way to the east already, to find out whatever he could about the sea of Lifeblood he’d sensed beneath the earth and how it had unbalanced what he’d so carefully wrought with the Wells in the west. The Faelehgre had simply given him more information about what to expect when he arrived: another Well, perhaps, one much larger than the one in Terra’nor. How he was to find the Well was a different matter. They didn’t know precisely where it was, only that it was beyond dwarren lands, in the wastelands farther east, and that he should be able to follow the flow of the Lifeblood deep within the earth to find it.
But that was what galled him: the assumption by the Faelehgre that he would do it. There had been no question; they simply expected it of him. They’d said “someone,” but they, and he, knew there was no one else who could. And they both knew he would have to face the Wraiths and the Shadows once there, perhaps even Walter himself. There would have to be a confrontation. The Wraiths would not awaken the Well and then simply let him repair the damage. They needed the Well for something. The Faelehgre could now travel to the east-the awakening of the Well expanded their sphere of influence-and they could deal with the Shadows, but they could not handle the Wraiths. The Alvritshai, dwarren, and humans could not manipulate the Well to achieve any kind of balance.
It had to be him.
He slowed and bowed his head, the weight of the responsibility suddenly too heavy. There was too much to do, too much to handle: the new Well, whatever was forcing the dwarren to Gather, the ambiguous threat he’d been given by the Wraith in the north, and whatever Lotaern had planned for the Alvritshai and the knife Colin had forged. The world had felt steady and stable for decades. He hadn’t been idle; he’d been working, traveling, studying, looking for a way to destroyWalter and the other Wraiths.
He thought he’d have more time.
A few days ago, he’d accused the races of being complacent, but he’d behaved in exactly the same way. The Seasonal Trees had only bought them time. He’d known that the moment he’d planted them, known that they would not keep Walter and the others at bay forever. Even so, he’d allowed himself to relax, expecting them to last for hundreds of years.
And now the Wraiths were active again. He was being forced to catch up, to wake up.
Everything was happening so fast.
He shook himself and tried to shove aside the weight that pressed against him, but he could feel it draped across his shoulders, like the bar of a penance lock.
He shuddered at the old memory, then struck out grimly again into the forest. The dark boles of the cedars closed in around him, the red-tinged bark scenting the air, their roots making the unmarked path treacherous. They grew larger as he neared the heart. He passed close to one, rested his hand against its bark for support, and felt the deep thrum of the wood beneath his hand, the life-force that pulsed through the tree even with time slowed. He unconsciously drew strength from it, and the melancholy mood brought on by the Faelehgre’s expectations lifted slightly. He pushed away from the comfort and continued.
Moments later, he slipped around another trunk, letting his hand brush its essence as he did so, and found himself at the lip of a small, empty hollow.
Cedars lined the space, the ground dipping down and leveling out, littered with fallen needles, small cones, and twigs. Faint moonlight sifted down through the branches overhead, everything in various shades of gray and black. The ridge that surrounded the hollow was natural, although startlingly circular, composed mostly of exposed cedar roots. Colin stood at its edge, letting the soothing light surround him, then stepped down to its center.
As he moved, he saw the first signs of the dwarren’s return. When he’d come here before, the hollow had been empty save for the trees and their leavings. Now, he spotted a dwarren spear thrust into the ground at the lip of the hollow, ceremonial feathers tied to its end. Other offerings were scattered on the ground among the cones and twigs-a carved scepter, a tangle of leather strands woven into a band, a latticework of beads and bone. He paused over a small mound of earth, like an anthill, that had been heaped up, a depression made in its center. Something dark had been poured into the depression, an offering of water or blood.
There were no dead embers or charred brands anywhere. Fire was not something used to appeal to a forest.
The fact that the dwarren had rediscovered their connection to the forest gave him some small hope that perhaps he wasn’t fighting the Wraiths and the Shadows alone. Aside from the spiritual connection to the Lands that the hollow provided, there was only one reason to come here.
The same reason Colin had come.
He found the center of the hollow, where the ground had been tread upon so often it had been swept clear of all debris and packed solid. He stared up into the patch of night sky above, then let time resume. The branches of the cedars swayed in a gentle breeze that did not penetrate to the hollow. The cloying scent of cedar-heavy with time slowed-became almost overpowering with its intensity. He breathed it in deeply, allowing his lungs to adjust to it, and felt it affecting his body, similar to the smoke of the dwarren yetope. His gaze dropped to the surrounding trees, the trunks that lined the edge of the hollow suddenly sharp and distinct in the darkness, as if they’d been lit with a soft, hazy yellow light. He circled once, twice, and then settled to the ground, legs crossed before him. He let his arms drop into his lap and hung his head forward, back hunched.
And he breathed. Slow, deep breaths, drawing the scent of the forest inside him, letting it permeate him. His arms began to prickle after ten such breaths, the ground to grow warm beneath him as his body relaxed, his heart calming. He felt himself drawn deeper into that earth, centering downward, to where the roots of the forest twined among the stone and the flow of the Lifeblood. The essence of the forest he had only brushed when touching the boles of the trees grew thick and viscous, like sap. It smothered him as he submerged himself in it, surrounding him with its luminescence. And then he opened his mind, to allow it to see his need.
Unlike the Lifeblood, more like Aielan’s Light, the essence of the forest was animate and aware, but in a way that Colin could not comprehend. He’d learned long ago not to try, to simply allow the forest to feel him, to taste him. He sensed its presence, filtering through him like the growth of roots through soil, searching.
Distantly, he heard a sigh, as of wind through branches, and the creak and groan of wood shifting. Something brushed his shoulders, his hunched back, tickled the base of his neck. He shuddered at the touch. Then the sensation retreated, the essence of the forest withdrawing from his mind. The earth pushed him up out of its warmth.
He gasped and opened his eyes, straightening where he sat, his lower back screaming with tension. He rotated his aching neck, green needles falling from his shoulders to patter onto the ground around him. Something sticky on his neck caught at his shirt and he reached back to touch it, his fingers coming back tacky with sap. As he twisted the pain out of his shoulders, he noticed what had been left on the ground before him.
A new staff, its length riddled with twisting lines, like those found beneath the bark of a branch after it had been peeled away. He reached out to take it automatically-it was what he had come for, a staff to replace the one stolen by Vaeren in the northern wastes-then paused.
The forest had left another gift. A scattering of arrows, made of the same wood as his staff. He counted at least four dozen, along with two longbows like those the Alvritshai carried.
For Eraeth and Siobhaen.
He glanced out into the surrounding forest with a frown. He had not asked for the bows, nor the arrows. Yet the forest felt he needed them.
The sentience behind such a gift sent a shiver down his spine. He had thought he’d come here often enough to understand the forest, had thought that it was aware, but only enough to know what he asked for and why.
It had never anticipated a need he had not anticipated himself.
Leaning forward, still uneasy, he closed his hand around the staff and felt the recognition of the life-force within it pulse. He drew that life-force around him, the contact easing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d felt. The presence of the staff completed him in some way. He had held one nearly all of his life, since drinking from the Well and becoming part of Terra’nor, part of the forest. He took a moment to run his free hand up and down its length, smiling.
Then he gathered up the two bows-without string, he noticed-and the arrows, the shafts made of a single piece of wood, the points sharp, but with no fletching. He bound the arrows in groups of twelve using twine, six dozen in all, and shoved the bulky bundles awkwardly into his satchel. He worked quickly. It had taken longer to commune with the forest than he had expected. He needed to find his way back to the dwarren war party, before Eraeth and Siobhaen panicked at his absence.
Everything packed, he took the staff up in one hand, the two bows in the other, and turned to scan the circle of cedars one more time. He bowed his head and murmured, “Thank you, for all the gifts you have given me before, and for those you have given me tonight.”
Lotaern nodded to the White Phalanx guardsman who’d escorted him through the Tamaell’s personal chambers on the highest tier in Caercaern to the rooftop gardens. As Chosen of the Order, he had been to these gardens on several occasions, usually for small, casual gatherings of Lords of the Evant and other Alvritshai of power in the city, hosted by either Thaedoren himself or, more recently, Tamaea Reanne.
He had never been summoned here to meet with the Tamaell alone.
Thaedoren stood on the far side of the garden, his hands on the wide stone abutment. He gazed out over the city of Caercaern, the Hauttaeren rising off to one side, water cascading down the rocky mountain face in thin sprays that reflected the afternoon sunlight. Some of those falls were caught above the tier and funneled into a stream that wound through the garden, the water escaping in another waterfall down the side of the highest level before winding its way down to the city below.
Lotaern frowned at the Tamaell’s back, his stomach clenching. The summons had arrived that morning, while he’d been meeting with Peloroun and Orraen beneath the Winter Tree. The timing made him wonder if the Tamaell knew of his dealings with the two lords, of what they had planned. It would be the end of Thaedoren’s rule of the Evant and the Alvritshai as Tamaell, and the rise of Lotaern and the Order in its place. Did he suspect anything? He could not imagine how the Tamaell would have found out.
And yet, Thaedoren had asked to see him.…
Straightening his shoulders, Lotaern stepped forward, his features carefully neutral. He did not know what the Tamaell knew, so would assume nothing. The summons could concern anything, from the Evant to Aielan and the Scripts.
His hands clenched at his sides before he forced them to relax.
“Tamaell,” he said as he approached, smiling. “You wished to see me?”
Thaedoren turned from his perusal of the city, but did not smile. “Chosen.”
Neither of them nodded or bowed to the other.
Thaedoren considered him a long moment, then stepped away from the edge and motioned Lotaern to accompany him as he began strolling through the various pathways of the garden. “I called you here to address a few concerns that have come to my attention regarding the Order.”
Lotaern’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he managed to keep his voice mild. “I see. Who brought these concerns to your attention?”
“A few of the Lords of the Evant.”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. He thought he could name at least one of those lords. “What has the Order done that concerns the Evant?”
Thaedoren shot him a sideways glance, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Everything the Order does concerns the Evant, Chosen. Especially now that you have become a part of the Evant.”
“Of course, Tamaell. I meant, what is of concern to these particular lords?”
Thaedoren continued on for a few more slow steps. “They are concerned about the members of the Order of the Flame who are circulating among the temples in their House lands. Some feel that it is a show of force, a subtle threat. After careful consideration, I have to agree.”
Lotaern bridled, although his fear that Thaedoren knew of his alliance with Peloroun and Orraen relaxed. “Having the Flame move among the temples is certainly within my rights as Chosen of the Order and it has nothing to do with the Evant.”
“Having acolytes traveling on pilgrimages from temple to temple has nothing to do with the Evant. However, you cannot argue that the members of the Flame are simply acolytes. They are not. They are warriors, trained in the art of battle, with the power of Aielan’s Light behind them, as you have proven on the battlefield at the Escarpment and in the attacks of the sukrael and the Wraiths in the years since. As warriors-as members of the Order of Aielan’s Phalanx-they fall under my direction as Tamaell of the Evant, just as all of the House Phalanx are under my command when necessary. Are you saying that the Flame should not be treated as a military unit?”
“They are acolytes of the Order, learned in the Scripts, with Aielan’s Light behind them.”
Thaedoren shook his head. “You cannot have it both ways, Chosen. The Order of the Flame is either a Phalanx under the direction of the Evant, or they are acolytes of the Order and nothing more.”
Lotaern sensed the threat behind the words. The Flame gave the Order the aspect of a House. If the members of the Flame became mere acolytes, then the Order of Aielan and Lotaern himself would lose his standing within the Evant. He couldn’t afford to lose that now.
But if he agreed that the Flame acted as the Order’s Phalanx, Thaedoren would have the power to seize control of it in times of need.
Thaedoren had halted and was watching him. He suddenly realized he hadn’t answered quickly enough, that his response should have been instant.
He smiled, knew it was forced. “The members of the Order of the Flame are warriors, of course. Warriors who are ultimately under the direction of Aielan.”
Thaedoren’s expression did not change. It was an ambiguous response, but Lotaern could not read how the Tamaell had taken it. His only words were, “Very well. Keep that in mind during the opening of the Evant.”
Was there a hint of warning in his voice?
“Was there anything else, Tamaell?”
“No. You may leave.”
Lotaern had made it to the entrance to the garden when Thaedoren called after him. He halted in his tracks, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I have heard of other concerns from the Lords of the Evant regarding the Order, and the Chosen. Be careful of what you attempt to gain, Lotaern. Do not attempt to extend your influence too far.”
Lotaern didn’t answer, couldn’t answer through the sudden fear that seized him. Instead, he turned and bowed his head in acknowledgment before stalking through the door and into the uppermost tier of the palace. Two White Phalanx fell into step to either side behind him, but he barely noticed, his mind racing.
What did Thaedoren know? What could he possibly have learned from the other lords? Had Peloroun or Orraen revealed their plans? But that did not make sense. Both lords had been concerned over revealing themselves, and both of them had too much to gain by allying themselves with him. Peloroun had lost power with his support of the ill-fated traitor, Lord Khalaek. And Orraen was too impatient to await a rise in the Evant after replacing his father, even with his sister now bonded to the Tamaell as Tamaea.
No, neither Peloroun nor Orraen had betrayed him.
He forced his heart to calm, the constriction in his chest easing. Taking a few deep breaths, he reconsidered the Tamaell’s last words, turned them over in his head, searching for what had not been said. The longer he thought about them, the more relaxed he became. The accusation had been vague, without specifics. If Thaedoren had known something specific, especially something as volatile as what he had planned, the Tamaell would not have resorted to veiled threats. No, Thaedoren knew nothing.
But he was suspicious.
Lotaern and his escort had reached the corridor that separated the Tamaell’s private chambers from the rest of the palace, the two White Phalanx taking up positions to either side of the entrance as he passed through. Lotaern ignored them, searching the round room for Vaeren, his sandaled feet clopping against the massive marble floor. The caitan of the Flame, along with Petraen, were waiting against the far wall, watching the servants, Phalanx, and other clerks pass by with studied disinterest. Both straightened as soon as they saw the Chosen.
Vaeren picked up on his uneasiness instantly. “What did the Tamaell want, Chosen?”
Lotaern scowled. “He wanted to discuss the finer points of law regarding the Order of the Flame. I fear he intends to use it somehow at the opening of the Evant. But he hinted at knowing something more. He warned the Order against overstepping its bounds.”
“He has always been cautious with the Order, unwilling to allow us power, but more than willing to use the Flame for his own ends.”
“That will change,” Lotaern muttered. “If the Alvritshai hope to survive the Wraiths and the sukrael, it will have to change. Only the Order and Aielan’s Light can lead us out from under their shadow. Thaedoren, and the other Lords of the Evant, will understand that shortly.”
Peloroun sat behind his desk within his personal chambers in Caercaern, staring across it toward the Ionaen House Phalanx guardsman who stared back. Few knew that he had already arrived for the opening of the Evant. Most of the lords of the Houses would be arriving in the next week.
Some were already here.
The muscles of his face hardened as he thought of Lord Aeren, then relaxed. He had dealt with Aeren since before the Escarpment, although since then the lord had gained much influence in the Evant. His exposure of Khalaek as a traitor had been the impetus behind much of that.
But Aeren’s time would come.
Peloroun smiled. The nervous guardsman across from him winced.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you here, Iroen.”
The guardsman swallowed, but straightened in his seat. He did not seem comfortable being seated in his lord’s presence. His hands shifted from the arms of the polished oak chair to his legs and back again before settling there. “No, Lord Peloroun. I am Ionaen Phalanx. I serve you without question.”
“I see.”
Iroen’s words were more sincere than he knew, although he and Courranen had made certain that Iroen and his two fellow guardsmen would not remember why.
Peloroun regarded the guardsman for a moment, then abruptly stood. As he moved around his desk, he picked up the small blade he used to open missives, only half the length of his finger, its handle made of bone. It was not especially sharp-it was not meant to be-but it was sufficient for his purposes.
Iroen watched him as he circled the desk. The guardsman did not miss the retrieval of the knife, which made Peloroun wonder if perhaps he should use one of the other two guardsmen instead. He hated to waste a promising guard.
But no, Iroen was here now. It would take time to summon the others.
“I have a problem, Iroen. One that you can help me with. I need to speak with someone, but he is too far away to summon, so far, in fact, that it would take weeks to find him simply to deliver the summons.”
Iroen frowned. Peloroun saw it as he passed behind him, the guard’s head dipping forward in confusion. “I don’t understand. How can I help you with this, my lord?”
Peloroun leaned back against his desk on Iroen’s far side, near enough he could have killed him with the letter opener before the guard could react if he’d wanted to.
“Do you recall the survey of the Provinces that we endured nearly twenty years ago, when I and three other Lords of the Evant traveled from Rendell in the north, along the coastal lands controlled by the humans, and then eastward from Portstown across the southern Provinces, through Temeritt, Borangst, and Yhnar?” When Iroen nodded, he continued. “You won’t remember, but while we were traveling from Temeritt to Yhnar, you and I and two other Ionaen House Phalanx left the main group, ostensibly to take a closer look at the Flats that separate the human lands from the Thalloran Wasteland. We met a friend there, on the Flats-the person I need to speak to actually. During that meeting, he left each of you with a… gift.”
Peloroun’s smile didn’t change, but the guard shifted uneasily. He held Peloroun’s gaze. “I don’t remember any of this.”
“I said you wouldn’t. But if you draw back the sleeve of your shirt, you will see what he left you.”
Iroen glanced toward the arm that Peloroun pointed to, resting on the edge of his seat. At Peloroun’s prodding, he slid the sleeve back to his elbow and turned his arm palm up, exposing the pale underside riddled with veins. Near the wrist, a small black mole stood out against the pale skin.
Except it wasn’t a mole.
Peloroun shifted away from the desk, his motion casual, although Iroen looked up at him, his confusion growing.
“I don’t understand-” he began.
Peloroun clamped his hand down on the guardsman’s forearm to hold it steady and jabbed the small knife into the black mark, felt it pierce skin and dig into the tendons of the wrist beneath. Iroen cried out in shock, jerked back, fury infusing his face, but Peloroun had already released his arm and stepped back. He moved around the desk, tossed the knife aside, a few drops of blood speckling the papers there, and seated himself carefully.
Iroen clutched his wounded wrist in one hand, anger twisting his features into a hard grimace that he fought to control, his breath coming in heaves. Through clenched teeth, he spat, “What did you do that for, my lord?”
Peloroun raised his eyebrows in feigned shock. “I thought you served without question, Iroen?”
The guardsman huffed a short breath, his glare his only answer.
Movement caught Peloroun’s eye and his gaze dropped to Iroen’s arm, the sleeve still pulled back to the elbow. A thin line of blood had escaped from beneath the guardsman’s hand where he tried to staunch the flow, but that wasn’t what riveted Peloroun to his seat. The Ionaen lord felt the blood drain from his face, his features going slack. Iroen noticed and followed the direction of his gaze.
From beneath the guard’s hand, black liquid, like ink, streamed down the length of his arm. But unlike the trail of blood, it spread beneath the skin.
Iroen gasped and jerked back, letting go of his wrist as he flung his arm away from his body, as if he could dislodge the black fluid by shaking it off. His own blood spattered the desk, a drop hitting Peloroun’s cheek, causing him to flinch. But the lord didn’t move, didn’t raise a hand to brush the blood away. He couldn’t move, transfixed by what was happening to Iroen. The guard flailed his arm again, a cry escaping him, but the black fluid had already reached his elbow, had begun to work its way into his upper arm, snaking beneath the cover of the shirt.
Iroen shot a panicked look at his lord, then gripped and ripped the sleeve of his shirt free. By the time the fabric gave, the blackness had seethed upward to his shoulder and appeared to be growing. Iroen lurched up from his chair, cried out again as Peloroun watched the ink spread across the guard’s chest, so dark it was visible beneath the white shirt. Iroen’s right hand pounded the area above his heart as he gasped, his breaths painful now, his face contorted with a struggle that Peloroun could not comprehend. His fingers seized the flesh over his heart, as if trying to dig into the cavity beneath where the blackness had pooled. Cords stood out on the guard’s neck as he arched backward, mouth open in a rictus of pain-
Then Iroen stilled. He emitted a choked sound, his features going slack.…
And he collapsed back into the chair beneath him. His head lolled, as if his neck had been broken. His arms fell into his lap. Blood stained his shirt from the cut in his wrist. Peloroun would have thought he was dead except that he could still see him breathing.
The lord remained in his seat, frowning at his guardsman. He wasn’t certain he should move-wasn’t certain he could. Courranen had not told him what to expect when he released the piece of Shadow implanted in each of the guards, only that if there was a need for contact, to cut the black mark so that the darkness could reach the victim’s bloodstream.
And from there, the heart.
Peloroun eyed the black stain that he could see under the guard’s shirt. He shifted forward, wincing when his chair creaked, and realized his hands had gripped the arms of his own chair so hard they’d cramped. He forced them free, shook them out, his forearms aching from the strain.
Then he stood.
As he did so, Iroen’s body spasmed.
Peloroun choked on his own breath, leaned forward onto his desk to regain his composure. As he drew in air, he noticed the black stain over Iroen’s heart had begun to move. Tendrils snaked out toward the guard’s arms and legs, a thicker tendril working its way up his neck. It split and curled around his mouth and nose beneath the skin, then each converged on the guard’s eyes.
Peloroun saw the black liquid spill into the whites of Iroen’s eyes as if it were, indeed, ink. The guard’s body jerked again as the oil filled the whites completely.
Iroen blinked once, twice… and sat up straight in his seat. He regarded Peloroun across the desk with eyes as black as night, traceries of the darkness beneath his skin like tattoos across his face, arms, chest, and legs.
“You wished to speak with me?”
The voice was not Iroen’s.
It was Khalaek’s.
Peloroun’s legs lost their strength, and he dropped heavily back into his seat. The same shock he had felt decades ago when he had gone to the Flats, uncertain of who would meet him, and finding Khalaek waiting shivered through his body again. It had been the only time he had seen the fallen lord since. Khalaek had looked the same as when he had been carried out into the churned-up plains at the edge of the Escarpment and given over to the human King Stephan, after being banished and exiled by Thaedoren and the Evant… except that his pale skin had been mottled with the same shadowy oil that had suffused Iroen. Khalaek had been accompanied by another of the sukrael-touched, another Alvritshai named Courranen, but Courranen deferred to Khalaek, standing a step behind the Lord of House Duvoraen.
Peloroun had fallen to his knees when he’d seen him, the winds that blew incessantly and tasted of salt burning his face and parched lips. The fine-grained sand of the Flats had cut into his knees as he bowed his head and muttered, “Lord Khalaek.”
Khalaek had frowned down at him, even as Peloroun’s escort of three guardsmen knelt in guarded consternation behind him. “Not Khalaek,” he’d said, his voice hard. “The Evant has banished me, have they not? I am no longer Lord of House Duvoraen. I am Khalaek-khai now.”
Hearing Khalaek’s voice-the inflections, the tone-coming from Iroen’s mouth brought that meeting back so intensely Peloroun could taste the salt and feel the heat of the sun-baked earth beneath his knees. He licked his lips and tried to speak, but couldn’t.
A look of annoyance crossed Iroen’s face, then the black eyes glanced around the room, coming back to rest on Peloroun. “Say what you have to say, Lord Peloroun. I have no time to waste. Events are escalating, and this connection will not last long.”
The thought that perhaps he had made a mistake flashed through Peloroun’s mind, but he leaned forward. His first words cracked and broke, as if something had been lodged in his throat, but as he spoke, his voice steadied. “All of the arrangements have been made here in Caercaern and throughout Alvritshai lands. The Chosen has begun his campaign to bring the people to our cause, and we have gathered together allies within the Evant. But there is a problem.”
Creases appeared in Iroen’s forehead as Khalaek narrowed his eyes. “What problem?”
Peloroun stood and growled, “Lord Aeren.” When Khalaek’s frown merely deepened, he continued. “The Lord of Rhyssal House has taken it upon himself to oppose Lotaern and his use of the Order of the Flame. He has been visiting each lord as they arrive in the city in person, in private, to argue against the Chosen and the Order. I believe that he is gaining support. Most of the lords have already expressed unease at having members of the Flame walking through their lands, although so far only Lord Aeren has vocalized those concerns publicly. I do not know what he has said to bring the lords to his side, but I fear that his politicking will interfere with our plans.”
“And what do you propose I do about it?”
“We,” Peloroun said, emphasizing the word, “were hoping that the timing of events could be shifted forward. We thought perhaps you or one of the other Wraiths could arrive sooner than planned, along with your armies, preferably before Lord Aeren has the chance to dismantle everything we have worked to achieve.”
Khalaek stared at him over the desk, and for a moment Peloroun wondered if he knew of their real intent in bringing one of the Wraiths within Lotaern’s grasp. Fresh sweat broke out along his skin. He didn’t know what the Wraiths were capable of. Could Khalaek reach out through Iroen’s body and kill him where he stood if he suspected their treachery? Or would it be simpler to use Iroen’s own cattan to kill him?
Could Peloroun harm Khalaek if he fought back, or would it only destroy Iroen’s body?
“Impossible,” Khalaek finally said, the single word riddled with finality, his next words with derision. “The Winter Tree is still a factor. The Wraiths and the majority of our armies cannot attack Alvritshai lands until the Tree has been destroyed. That is the reason we are even discussing an alliance with you and the Chosen. Without the Tree, we could seize all of the Alvritshai’s lands without your help.”
Anger sparked inside Peloroun, prickling along his shoulders and down his arms. “Then how can we destroy the Tree?”
Iroen’s lips twisted into a smile. “You cannot. Nor can the Chosen. But we have already begun. The Trees are weakening, their power lessening.” The smile vanished. “But it will take time. That is what you and the Chosen are intended to do: provide us with that time. You know this. Soon there will be calls to war. The Accord that all three races signed a generation ago will be tested. That is when you will be needed. You must keep the Alvritshai distracted while I and the rest of the Wraiths bring down the Seasonal Trees and begin our march on Wrath Suvane. That is your goal. Or have you forgotten?”
Peloroun’s hand closed into a fist at the flat derision in Khalaek’s voice, but he bowed his head. “I have not forgotten.”
“Deal with Lord Aeren on your own. Do whatever it takes to stop him.”
“Of course, Khalaek-khai.”
Iroen’s black eyes bored into him, the guard’s features shifting subtly, taking on more of Khalaek’s aspects than Iroen’s. “You failed me once in the past, Peloroun, there at the Escarpment. Do not fail me again.”
Before Peloroun could respond, the darkness left Iroen’s eyes and the guard’s body slumped forward, forehead thudding onto the desk. He glared at the body, tried to control his breathing, then shook himself. He shoved Iroen’s body back, noted the too pale skin, the black marks like tattoos no longer swirling like ink, no longer mobile.
He knew before he pressed his hand to Iroen’s neck that the guardsman was dead.
“You must watch the lords and their retainers as closely as possible while I speak,” Aeren said to Hiroun for the tenth time as all around them the proceedings of the Evant continued. He did not look at the guardsman as he spoke, his gaze flicking from one lord to another, to the Chosen and the Tamaell, and then back to the rest of the room. “I will be too focused on presenting my argument to see everything. I’m counting on you to catch what I miss.”
“Yes, Lord Aeren. I’ll watch them carefully.”
Aeren kept the frown from his face at the hint of irritation that had crept into Hiroun’s voice and kept his eyes on the Hall of the Evant’s activity. He knew he’d repeated himself too much, that the repetition came across as a lack of faith in Hiroun, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d felt Eraeth’s absence too much in the last few weeks as he arranged meetings with each of the individual lords as they arrived in Caercaern. All of his requests had been granted, even by Lord Peloroun, who had opposed him since before the Accord. The arrangements for the meetings and the preparation required had been taxing. Without Eraeth there to share the burden, he’d been forced to handle everything himself. He’d taken to talking out loud to his empty rooms, as if Eraeth were there listening.
Of the six lords he’d met with after speaking to Thaedoren, only one supported him outright. Lord Terroec, still young in his claim to his House after his father’s death, had been the most disturbed by the presence of the members of the Flame in his lands. Aeren hadn’t even informed him of Lotaern’s theft of Shaeveran’s knife before he was agreeing to back him if he brought the matter of the Order to the Evant floor. Peloroun, the oldest lord next to Aeren, had listened attentively, eyebrows raised at Lotaern’s treachery, but had been evasive and ambiguous regarding his support. Aeren had expected nothing less, yet had left the lord’s apartments in Caercaern faintly troubled. There had been something about Peloroun’s household that hadn’t felt quite right. It had taken him two days before it struck him why-the guardsmen and servants had been too settled, too fixed into a routine. Peloroun had told him he and his entourage had arrived only the day before, and yet Aeren hadn’t seen any unpacked chests or wagons being unloaded. Servants were not hastily scrubbing floors or dusting shelves, clearing away the effects of leaving the rooms and corridors vacant for the long winter months. Everything had already been cleaned; even the smell of the scented water used for such efforts had faded.
He suspected that Peloroun had been in Caercaern longer than he admitted publicly. Eraeth would have noticed the discrepancy immediately. It annoyed Aeren that it had taken him two days to figure it out on his own. But what reason would Peloroun have to arrive early? He didn’t know.
He scanned the remaining four lords. Orraen and Houdyll were both relatively new to their positions, although Orraen carried himself as if he had already risen to the highest ranks of the Evant, if not the Tamaell’s position itself. Houdyll was different. Watching the young lord’s nervousness on the floor and during their private meeting only made Aeren believe that Jydell, Houdyll’s father, would be disappointed. Jydell had been a strong leader, careful to make alliances that only aided his House, aligning himself with no one permanently and maintaining alliances only when they were still beneficial to him. Houdyll attempted to please everyone. He had nodded agreement with everything Aeren said during their meeting, leaving Aeren completely uncertain about where he would stand when it came time for a vote in the Evant.
Saetor and Daesor were more experienced and, like Peloroun, hedged their responses. Both had expressed concern over the Flame, and surprise over Lotaern’s actions regarding the knife. Saetor, with his military background as part of Khalaek’s Phalanx, had nearly admitted that he agreed with Lotaern, that the knife should be in the hands of the Order, where it could be used most effectively. Daesor was more taciturn about his thoughts.
It was not the reaction Aeren had expected. When Daesor had seen his frustration, he’d merely said, “Perhaps the reason you feel so strongly about this is because the affront was so personal. Lotaern’s Flame practically stole the knife from beneath your own hand.”
Aeren had had nothing to say to that. Daesor had been the last lord he’d spoken to before the Evant was convened.
Now, Lord Daesor stood in the middle of the oval chamber, reporting on his activities over the winter months, including travel to Andover across the Arduon Ocean, ostensibly to solidify trade agreements with the Northern Fleet Trading Company and the Taranto and Avezzano Families of the Court.
“-have signed agreements with the Northern Fleet based on these accessions on their part. I believe the compromise will increase our trade with the Court in Andover and help solidify our political ties with the Doms of each of the northern Families. I hope that this will allow the establishment of a presence of Alvritshai goods on the Andover markets unprecedented in our history with that nation.”
Daesor nodded to Tamaell Thaedoren as he finished. The murmur of conversation increased as he made his way to his seat, flourishing the maroon-and-gold colors of his House. A page leaned forward to hand him a note, which he frowned at as he read it. More pages were making their way back and forth across the room, Aeren keeping a close eye on those who arrived and departed from Lotaern’s seat.
On the raised platform that held the Tamaell’s seat, the Tamaea’s and Tamaell Presumptive’s thrones empty, Thaedoren allowed the conversation to continue for a time. As soon as the pages’ activity began to abate, he caught Aeren’s gaze and nodded toward him, then rose.
“Lord Aeren has expressed a desire to speak to the Evant regarding some of the recent activity of our own Chosen, Lotaern, of the Order of Aielan. I yield the floor to him.”
Thaedoren’s voice was perfectly inflected; Aeren could tell nothing of which way the Tamaell intended to throw his support. But Aeren remembered the meeting in his chambers too clearly, recalled Reanne’s presence, so strong and self-evident once he’d noticed it. The Tamaea was not in attendance at this meeting of the Evant, but he could feel her nonetheless.
He rose, cast Hiroun one last look, the young guardsman nodding in acknowledgment, his face set. Aeren felt heartened as he watched the guardsman begin to scan the rest of the chamber as he himself made his way to the center of the floor.
He smiled and surveyed all of the lords before settling his gaze on Lotaern. He bowed his head. “I beg the Chosen’s forgiveness for bringing this to the Hall of the Evant, but it is something that I felt needed to be addressed by the assemblage as a whole.”
Lotaern had stiffened where he sat, a dark frown touching his eyes and turning the corners of his mouth, but he did not respond. Aeren realized he already knew what he intended to say, and he felt a flicker of annoyance.
One of the lords must have informed him before the gathering of the Evant.
He shrugged his sudden unease and despair aside and turned to the rest of the Evant. He could not escape the feeling that the decision regarding his complaint had already been reached, but he forged onward.
“I have already spoken to all of you separately and in private about my concern, so here let me remind you that I was once an acolyte with the Order of Aielan myself. I have lived within the Sanctuary, trained beneath the Chosen’s hand, studied the Scripts myself, and even immersed myself in Aielan’s Light before I was called back to my House to become its lord after my father’s and brother’s deaths. I pledged myself to Aielan, to upholding the principles set out in the Scripts and established by all of those Chosen for the Order from times past. In my role as Lord of Rhyssal House, I have striven to maintain those principles and incorporate them into the policies of the House, even though by taking up that leadership I was forced to forsake the vows I took as an acolyte.
“At first, I found integrating the two-the principles of Aielan and the responsibilities of a lord-to be difficult. But I persevered, and over the years have surmounted the challenge. The two can coexist. I believe the Accord that was established between the three races was the culmination of that coexistence, at least for me.
“But recently, some of the actions of the Order of Aielan, and in particular, the Chosen, Lotaern, have caused me concern. I have found it more and more difficult to accept these changes made within the Order. I know that many of you are now thinking that my own reservations are born out of a personal conflict with Lotaern, a grudge or feud with him that I have harbored since I left the Order, perhaps rooted in my own dissatisfaction at being forced to leave. I tell you now, this is not so. When I left the Order, it was with the greatest respect for Lotaern and for the Order itself. It is only recent events that have troubled me. I know they have troubled some of the rest of you as well.”
He paused, looking around the room, taking in the expressions of every one of the lords where they sat behind the tables lined with cloth of their House colors. Most of their faces were carefully blank, their postures reserved. Lord Terraec’s gaze was locked on Lotaern, who sat behind his own table draped in folds of white, his hands hidden. Aeren turned to the Chosen as well as he continued.
“I have spoken to all of the lords regarding the members of the Order of the Flame, what is in essence the Order’s Phalanx, that have been actively invading our individual House lands under the auspices of being acolytes. They have been performing the rituals of the Order in the temples, acting as acolytes, and in most cases the acolytes who have been sent to care for the local populations at each temple have deferred to them. As a Lord of one of the Houses of the Evant, I would not condone the use of one of my fellow lords’ Phalanxes in my own lands without that lord first seeking permission from me and my fellow caitans. I would humbly request that the Chosen order the current members of the Order of the Flame who inhabit my lands back to the Sanctuary here in Caercaern, until such time as the Chosen seeks and gains permission to have the Flame enter my lands. I strongly suggest that the rest of the Lords of the Evant do the same.
“I would ask that the Evant reprimand the Chosen for his actions, for this blatant invasion of House lands. He has overstepped the bounds of the Order.”
A silence thrumming with anger followed his words. Aeren felt that anger trembling in his arms, the hands behind his back clasped so hard he knew the knuckles were white. The strength of the emotion surprised him. But what he had said in his speech was true: he had left the Order with the greatest respect for Lotaern and what the Chosen had taught him while he was an acolyte. The emergence of the Order of the Flame and the actions Lotaern had taken since then had been difficult to accept. Lotaern was not the mentor he remembered so fondly from his studies anymore. He had changed.
But the anger in the room did not come solely from him. He could feel it radiating from Lotaern as well. Somehow, over the course of years, the two had grown apart, grown distant.
A part of him regretted that distance and hated the enmity between them now. But he could not let Lotaern’s actions stand unchallenged.
Behind him, he heard the Tamaell stand and step forward, his tread unmistakable, but he did not turn to face him.
“As Tamaell of the Alvritshai,” Thaedoren said, his voice filling the chamber, smooth and dark with import, “I find that some of Lord Aeren’s concerns have merit. There are issues regarding the Order of the Flame that we have not yet addressed, one of which is how the Flame is to be treated. Should the Order be considered a House and the Flame its Phalanx? Lord Aeren has stated that is how he feels, and as such the Flame should not be allowed to arbitrarily enter a fellow lord’s House lands. The alternative is to agree that the Flame is not a military force at all, but merely a group of specialized acolytes, in which case the Order would not be considered equivalent to a House in its own right.
“I pose the question to Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, first. Does the Order wish to be considered the equivalent to a House, with the Order of the Flame as its Phalanx, subject to all of the expectations and restrictions of a member of the Evant?”
Aeren felt his heart lurch as the words sank in. This was not what he had intended when he brought his concern to the Evant. He had simply wanted the lords to force Lotaern to remove the members of the Flame from House lands. He had not wanted to bring the Order’s place among the Evant into question. What Thaedoren had brought to the floor would solidify the powers that Lotaern wielded within the Evant. It would answer the question that had hounded them all since the Order of the Flame had been revealed. If the lords agreed, Lotaern would become the equivalent of a lord. Instead of merely having a say in the Evant, his opinion easily dismissed since he had no true power, he would gain political weight.
Aeren turned to regard the Tamaell in horror, but Thaedoren was not looking at him. His focus was on Lotaern. Aeren spun back to the Chosen of the Order, his heart now beating too fast in his chest. For he knew how Lotaern would answer.
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 the Alvritshai. 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 finally Peloroun stood. Only Terroec 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 naive, 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.”