“Gregson!”
Jayson jerked up out of his half-sleep in the saddle at the shout, to see two of the Legionnaires who’d been sent out slightly ahead of the column of refugees charging down the road on their horses. Gregson rode at the front, with Terson and a small entourage of Legion. Behind walked the survivors of the attack on Cobble Kill and nearly a hundred other refugees that had joined them as they fled toward Patron’s Merge. Some were farmers and others who lived outside of Cobble Kill, driven out by the Alvritshai army, but others had come from outlying villages in the surrounding area, like Gray’s Kill. Jayson scanned the group of ragged and weary people, shaking off his own grogginess from the last week of slow travel as he searched for Corim. He found the youth-he could no longer think of him as a boy-with Ara, both of them trudging along at the edge of the hundred and fifty men, women, and children Gregson and the Legion had taken under their wing. Two lone carts, pulled by workhorses, trailed behind, reserved for whatever food and supplies they’d managed to scavenge from isolated farms and cottages along the way. Not all of those they found joined the group, and some who had started with them had split and gone off on their own after arguing with Gregson or the Legion, or simply because they wanted to find missing family members. A few had deserted during the night. But more stayed than left, others joining them in ones and twos the farther south they traveled. Jayson had heard Gregson wondering why, speaking to his second, Terson. The Legionnaire lieutenant didn’t seem to realize that they stayed because of him, because of the strength and stability he represented. Even the bandages he still wore from wounds taken at Cobble Kill were a sign of his strength.
The refugees brought with them little except stories of death and despair, each questioned intently by Gregson or Terson as they arrived, both Legionnaires desperate to find out what was happening. As far as Jayson could ascertain, nearly every village and town of any reasonable size north of the river called Patron’s Kill had been attacked, and the army-composed mostly of Alvritshai warriors dressed in black and gold bearing an Eagle’s Talon mark-was moving steadily southward, although at a slow enough pace their group had managed to keep ahead of it. They had creatures of every sort with them-the lantern-eyed cats that had attacked Gray’s Kill, the gray-skinned giants like the one they’d encountered in Cobble Kill, leathery-winged birds, among others-all marching in a ragged line toward Temeritt, ransacking and burning everything they did not need behind them, reminiscent of the tales everyone had been told as children. Tales meant to frighten and keep those children obedient, or to entertain the adults around the hearthfire at night after the children had gone to bed.
Now those tales had come horribly to life and Jayson had begun to wonder what other stories from his childhood he should be worried about. Old superstitions suddenly weren’t easy to scoff at, the fear of the black creatures that had driven them out of their homes settling over them all like a disease. Jayson could see it in the eyes of everyone who’d joined them. Faces lined with despair, haggard with desperation. The refugees had already started calling the army the Horde, a name that sent a chill through Jayson every time he heard it.
Yet something in him had changed in Cobble Kill. The despair he saw on everyone else’s face hadn’t affected him in the same way. They looked battered and defeated, shuffling forward toward what they hoped would be a refuge, a haven from the devastation.
Jayson knew better now. He’d fled to Cobble Kill with the same expectation, that once he arrived the Legion would take care of everything and he could go back to being a miller, could reshape his life somehow. What he’d found was that Cobble Kill was no haven and that the threat was larger than anything he could have anticipated.
The Legion-at least, the small outposts and garrisons that dotted the Province along the dwarren border and the Flats-couldn’t handle the Horde. They needed help.
They needed GreatLord Kobel.
And he wasn’t even certain the GreatLord knew of the attacks yet. Gregson had sent three Legionnaires ahead of them to warn Patron’s Merge, but no one knew if they’d arrived safely to deliver the message. They hadn’t met any of the Horde on the road so far, had managed to stay ahead of their line, or at least out of its path. In the end, they were moving blindly toward Temeritt, without any guarantee that GreatLord Kobel would be able to help them.
Ara looked up at that moment, her lined face grim, and met Jayson’s gaze, startling him out of his thoughts. He straightened in his saddle. The tavern keeper glanced toward Corim at her side, then gave Jayson a questioning look. He shook his head. Reassured that Corim was safe, he checked the rest of the refugees and the men on horseback that hemmed them in on both sides of the road, then turned back toward the front of the line.
Gregson and Terson had ridden out to meet the two returning scouts. Their faces were edged with tension. One of the scouts pointed toward the distance and Jayson involuntarily glanced upward.
Something clutched at Jayson’s heart-the despair that the anger and realization in Cobble Kill had shoved aside-and he swore under his breath.
“What is it?”
Jayson jumped at the voice, looked down to find Ara and Corim standing beside him now. She brushed aside some strands of hair that had come loose from the cloth she’d used to tie it back, then turned to see what had caught Jayson’s attention.
The tired smile on her face went slack when she saw the black smoke that rose above the trees. Jayson felt an urge to shield Corim from the same reaction, but knew that it was pointless. He would see the smoke eventually.
And he did, his breath sucked in sharply in response. Jayson was shocked to see the despair that widened his eyes briefly flare into sudden anger, his apprentice’s hands unconsciously squeezing into fists at his sides.
“Is it Patron’s Merge?” Ara asked, her voice strangely lifeless.
“I don’t know,” Jayson said, “but I think we’re going to find out.”
The refugees had caught up to where Gregson and the others had conferred. The lieutenant of the Legion was still in deep conversation with the two scouts, both nodding or shaking their heads and pointing to the east and west. As the column slowed to a halt, the rest of its members began to notice the smoke as well, now darker and spread farther out. It had reached the upper winds, which meant that it was more distant than Jayson had first thought. He relaxed a little, even as the rest of the column’s tension heightened. People began to murmur and point, their voices edged and brittle. The days of traveling with little food and restless sleep were beginning to take their toll.
One of the other men, a blacksmith, suddenly called out, “What are we stopping for? Is the smoke from Patron’s Merge?”
Most of the refugees fell silent, waiting for Gregson’s answer.
Gregson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, shot his scouts a quick look, then sighed wearily and turned his horse to face the rest of the group. He drew himself up and said bluntly, “Patron’s Merge burns.”
Nearly all except the Legion gasped, clutching loved ones close, their eyes darting to the faces around them and out into the surrounding trees lining the road, faces lined with panic. Corim turned to Jayson, his jaw clenched, mouth pressed into a hard, determined line. Ara had dropped her head, shoulders rigid. He heard her muttering a prayer to Diermani under her breath, the words curt.
“What do we do now?” the blacksmith suddenly shouted. A few of the others joined him.
As if he’d been waiting for it, Gregson answered immediately. “According to the scouts, the Horde that’s hit Patron’s Merge has come from the east. There aren’t as many towns and villages out there, and they’re easier to find. They aren’t nestled in the broken rocks and forest like they are here beneath the edge of the Escarpment. That means they moved faster than the line of Horde that’s behind us.”
“How do you know the Horde is still behind us?” someone cried out. “What if they’re in front of us? What if we’re walking right into them?” His voice escalated on the last question.
Gregson cut him off before he could fall into an all-out rant. “Because my scouts are watching the main roads! If the Horde is making its way south, they’d have to use those roads, especially the Alvritshai with their horses. The land is too rugged, with too many clefts and gorges and streams for them to travel quickly on any other route.”
This appeared to quiet those who were on the verge of panic, although the worried grumbling and fearful glances didn’t stop.
Gregson waited a moment, then drew in a deep breath to steady himself. “Since we can’t find safety at Patron’s Merge, we’re going to head directly toward Temeritt, as swiftly as possible. There’s a crossroads ahead. We’ll take the western road and try to bypass Patron’s Merge and the Horde that surrounds it. I need everyone to pick up the pace.”
The lieutenant turned his back on the bevy of groans, but the refugees began reorganizing, mothers and fathers picking up children, some of the wounded men on horses pulling the youngsters into the saddle before them. A few shouldered their packs, those that hadn’t dropped them days past when they became too heavy to bear. Two elderly women were already driving the cart that carried some of the younger children. The rest of the children were old enough to continue on foot.
Gregson whistled and the group began to move again, at about twice the pace they’d been going before, but not fast enough for the horses to break out into a trot. The two scouts galloped on ahead, vanishing around a bend in the road.
Terson cantered back along the line, pausing at each of the mounted guards to issue orders. When he reached Jayson, he said, “Keep alert. We don’t know how far out the Horde has scouts. Be ready for anything.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to the sword strapped awkwardly at Jayson’s side, before he rode off to the next man.
Jayson’s hand dropped to the sheath and he swallowed back sudden nausea. He hadn’t had the sword out since Cobble Kill. He wasn’t certain he wanted to ever draw it again, yet knew that he would.
“You need to learn to use it,” Ara said abruptly and gave him a flat stare. “If you really want to protect us. Protect him.” Her head tilted toward Corim. “I can’t be patching you up every time you nick yourself in battle.”
Jayson felt his face flush.
They reached the crossroads and turned west.
An hour later, through a break in the trees, they caught sight of Patron’s Merge.
Built on an island formed at the junction of Patron’s Kill with the Silt River, its walls soared from the water to a height of thirty feet, two stone bridges connecting the island to the main shores on either side, the middle of each bridge wooden so they could be drawn up for protection. A third bridge joined the island to the land between the two rivers to the west. Two main towers rose from the massive city huddled within those walls, the highest on the southeastern point, the second near the center of the island, part of the stone church to Holy Diermani judging by the tilted cross at the top. The city was at least twenty times the size of Cobble Kill, but from their vantage on a ridge overlooking the lands that sloped down to the river valley, Jayson couldn’t see the houses and shops crammed in between the streets and walls within. The city was too distant. He couldn’t imagine living in such close quarters, with neighbors within spitting distance, or perhaps sharing the same buildings.
Nearly all of it was burning. Flames reached toward the sky, black smoke billowing out from the southern quarter of the city. A portion near the highest tower appeared untouched, but Jayson could tell it was only a matter of time. The Horde swarmed across the two drawbridges, both down, an undulating mass of men and creatures made indistinct and hazy by distance and smoke. And more of the Horde waited on the flatland along the riverbanks, a black stain against the slate blue of the rivers, against the spring greenery of the trees and the trampled fields that lay on both sides of the rivers. They’d surrounded the island completely to the north and south; only the mainland between the two rivers to the west remained open. The citizens of Patron’s Merge were fleeing across the third bridge: men, women, and children running for their lives. The bridge was so packed Jayson could see figures falling from its edge into the river below.
They were too distant to hear anything, the silence of the battle oddly disturbing. But in his mind Jayson could hear the flames of Gray’s Kill crackling, could feel the heat of the fire and taste the ash.
“Keep moving!” Gregson barked, his steed passing before Jayson and cutting off his vision of the dying city as he charged down the line. “Keep moving! We don’t want the Horde to see us!”
Jayson nudged his horse back into motion. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped.
Before the city passed out of sight, the church tower cracked diagonally upward as if sheared off with a blade, then slid to the side in a seething mass of smoke and embers, breaking in two as it fell.
Moans rose from the refugees as Gregson and the rest of the Legion urged them on. Jayson caught fervent whispered prayers, saw many crossing themselves or clutching pendants or blood vows openly or through their shirts, their faces ashen.
As the trees obscured the view and the road began descending toward the river valley below, Jayson’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword secured at his side.
Ara was right. He was going to have to learn how to use it.
The dwarren broke out into battle cries as soon as they emerged from the warrens into the midafternoon sunlight on the plains of Painted Sands. Quotl refrained from joining in, blinking in the blinding light as the mass of gaezels and dwarren Riders from the Thousand Springs Clan spread out in a sweeping arc from the entrance, scouts blazing out ahead of the main army as it slowed. Ahead, Clan Chief Tarramic and his closest advisers halted, searching the horizon in all directions. Quotl urged his own gaezel forward, caught the attention of all of the shamans that accompanied him, including Azuka, who would take his place as head shaman when he died. With a hand gesture, he sent Azuka and the rest to the edges of the surrounding area to begin the blessing of the land with an appeal to Ilacqua and the gods of the Four Winds for protection and strength. Gripping his own scepter, he joined Tarramic and nodded as he came to a halt beside him.
“What do you see?” Tarramic said, motioning to the horizon.
Quotl searched, his expression intent even though he desperately wanted to dismount. He was nearly forty years old; his bones no longer cared for long journeys by gaezel. His back ached and his legs were practically numb. But he was the head shaman.
And sometimes the aches and pains in his joints told him more than the signs the gods left for those who could see.
The plains of Painted Sands were different than those of Thousand Springs-more rugged, stonier, the grass thinner and more brittle. He reached down from his seat and let his hands run through the stalks, grunting at their feel, already farther along than the grass of Thousand Springs would be at this time of year. He gripped the heads of three stalks and pulled the kernels of grain free, husks and all, and held them out on his wrinkled, weathered palm, studying them. A breeze grabbed many of the dislodged husks and sent them flying. He followed them with squinted eyes, watched the paths they took, then considered the seeds left behind and their arrangement. As he did so, he felt a sense of calm envelop him, as if he stood outside of the tension and turmoil of the army as it continued to emerge from the warrens behind them all, spilling out from beneath the ground and onto the plains like water from a gushing well.
“Corranu and the Painted Sands Riders are over a day’s ride to the east,” he said, eyeing two seeds at the base of his middle finger. His gaze shifted to a grouping of five seeds nearer the center of his palm but to the right. “Cochen Oraju, the Red Sea Clan, and the Broken Waters Clan have already emerged from the warren to our south. I do not see Shadow Moon or Silver Grass, but-” he pointed to a lone kernel of grain on the far side of his palm, “-Claw Lake has also left the tunnels.”
He frowned at a grouping of seeds caught in the creases between his fingers. All of them were withered and brown, except for one tiny seed near the tip of his smallest finger, which looked new and must have come from the tip of the one of the stalks.
He shuddered at the sight of the diseased seeds, his stomach twisting. He counted seven total.
“What is it?” Tarramic asked.
Quotl glanced up, considered for a moment, still uncertain about what the single, small, unformed but healthy seed meant. Then he scattered the seeds in his palm to the ground. “The Wraith army is nearing Clan Chief Corranu’s position. We will intercept them within the week.”
Tarramic nodded grimly, the rest of the Riders around them shifting in their saddles as they watched their leader contemplate.
“What else do you see? Anything? Does Ilacqua not give us a sign of what is to come?”
Quotl straightened in his saddle at the uncertainty in Tarramic’s voice, something so subtle he doubted that many of the other Riders could hear it. But he and Tarramic had known each other too long for the clan chief to hide it from him. They’d led Thousand Springs Clan side by side since Tarramic took over upon his father’s death.
Tarramic wanted reassurance. He hadn’t agreed with the Cochen’s plan at the Gathering.
Quotl turned in his saddle to scan the horizon and the Riders as the last of them emerged from the tunnel. Tents were already being raised, holes driven in the ground and poles hoisted for the clan chief’s main tent. They had ridden hard since the Gathering at the Sacred Waters, splitting off from the Cochen’s main force after the first few days and riding on alone. They would be meeting up with the Painted Sands Clan east of here within the next two days, once their main provisions arrived.
But the storms to the northwest were what caught his attention.
Without conscious thought, he nudged his gaezel a few steps in that direction, then instantly cursed himself as Tarramic and the Riders around him tensed, one drawing a sharp breath and expelling it in a short prayer.
“Is it an omen?” Tarramic asked, voice tight.
Quotl cursed himself again and desperately wished he could take out his pipe and leaf. He found it more calming than the rattling of his scepter.
Instead, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow hum, hoping to calm the Riders with the sounds while at the same time calming his own heart. He brought his scepter forward, shaking it to the north, south, and west, modulating his humming as he did so.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Azuka waiting for him a short distance away. Behind the shaman, purple lightning flared through the black clouds. The storm appeared to boil up out of thin air, roiling westward from a clearly defined line, sheets of gray rain slanting down from their base to the plains below. More lightning lit the storm’s depths, the darkness highlighted in bluish whites, greens, and dirty yellows, like old bruises.
“The storm is not an omen,” Quotl lied. “The gods are troubled, but it forms to the west, and moves away from us, leaving the Riders untouched.”
Tammaric nodded and relaxed slightly, the others around them doing the same. Only Azuka frowned at this pronouncement, and Quotl shot him a warning glare to keep him silent.
“Then we will camp here until the supplies have arrived,” the clan chief announced. “Echema, select two Riders and find Clan Chief Corranu. Tell him of our location and the rest of Oraju’s plans. And warn him of Quotl’s Seeing of the Wraith army’s location.”
Echema nodded and spun his gaezel, pointing to two others before all three charged out after the scouts who’d departed earlier.
Tammaric’s gaze swept over the rest. “Set up patrols and order the Riders into training after they’ve had a chance to feed and care for their gaezels. I want everyone here gathered in my tent this evening, including you, Quotl.”
The Riders dispersed, Tammaric retreating to where his tent had nearly been finished and ducking through the outer flap. Riders and aides were toting a few chests, pillows, and other assorted amenities in through the two side entrances. Quotl heard the clan chief barking orders, but turned away, finally allowing himself to dismount with a wince and groan as he twisted and bent, trying to release the tension in his back and shoulders.
Azuka stepped forward as one of the Riders led Quotl’s mount away for grooming, Quotl’s bags left in the grass beside him.
“You lied about the storm,” Azuka accused, although he kept his voice low.
“He and the others needed reassurance, not discouragement. And the truth of the storm cannot be changed.” When Azuka grunted, Quotl pierced him with a glare. “Do you know the truth of the storm, Azuka? Do you know what it means?”
The shaman suddenly looked uncertain. “It means the gods are angry, that the winds are troubled, and it bodes ill for the battle to come.”
“Ha! It bodes ill for the battle to come because it tells us that we are no longer beneath the protection of the Summer Tree. The Wraiths and their army will be at full strength when we finally meet. And none of us can do anything about it.” He shifted his glare toward the storm. “I will warn Tarramic and the others at the meeting, but for now they need to relax as they plan and prepare if we are to have any chance of stopping the Wraith army.” And giving the Shadowed One the chance to find and halt the attack on the Summer Tree.
He suddenly realized what the small seed represented, and one of the many tensions in his shoulders relaxed.
The Shadowed One had made it past the Wraith army, then. Good.
“Head shaman?”
He glanced toward Azuka. “What?”
“You grunted and smiled.”
Quotl waved his hand. “It was nothing. Have the shamans completed the ritual?”
“Yes.”
“Have them gather in the ritual tent as soon as it is erected. I want to meet with them before the clan chief calls me into his Gathering.”
“Clear the table,” Tarramic ordered.
As the aides-all young Riders or those who were training to become Riders-moved forward to remove the platters of food, used plates, and trays, the clan chief motioned toward Quotl.
Setting aside his pipe and glaring at one of the aides who’d moved forward to remove it until the youth backed off, Quotl pulled the scepter of his office from his lap and stood, starting a chant in the ancient tongue as he began pacing the confines of the room. It was the largest chamber in the clan chief’s tent, the table surrounded by eleven dwarren Riders, all of them of significant families within the clan and the structure of the Riders. Three more aides remained behind as the last of the dinner was removed. Quotl shook the scepter along the four sacred lines to signify the gods of the Four Winds and closed off the chamber by arranging a pattern of feathers, grass, and a scattering of grain at the main entrance, then lit the brazier that hung from the center of the tent, tossing a few herbs and scented leaves onto the flames as he did so to summon Ilacqua.
Then he turned to Tarramic. “The Four Winds protect us, and Ilacqua guides our words.”
Tarramic nodded and motioned immediately to two of the aides as Quotl returned to his seat. “The map of Painted Sands. And the stones.”
One aide pulled the roll of leather from a trunk set off to one side, while the other set a small, flat, wooden box at Tarramic’s right side, removing the lid to reveal an array of compartments, each containing polished colored stone. The map was rolled out and secured using four heavy chunks of onyx at each of the rounded corners.
Everyone leaned forward to peer at the map. The lands of Painted Sands were worked into the leather, the straight line of the Andagua River cutting diagonally across the bottom left corner and stained a faint blue. Entrances to the warrens were marked with rounded impressions, the land scattered with three-lined marks that looked like tufts of grass. Unusual features of the grasslands were marked as well, including a jagged cut of land to the east called the Break that marked a sudden change in the landscape, grasses giving way to the red rock and sands that gave the clan its name. The cliffs were nothing in comparison to the Cut that bordered Thousand Springs Clan lands, not even half as high nor as long, but in terms of strategic land formations it was practically all that the dwarren had to work with. It ran for a significant distance, the eastern plains rising toward its base in a gentle curved slope that steepened until it hit the striated rock of the cliff face. Sometime in the distant past, a portion of the cliffs had given way, collapsing them into the plains beyond, creating a natural ramp to the upper plains to the west, where Tarramic and the Thousand Springs Clan now camped, although still two days distant.
Tarramic pointed toward the warren entrance west of the jagged line of the Break and the wide swath of land that interrupted it. “The Cochen has chosen this entrance as our retreat, if retreat becomes necessary. The bulk of our supplies will remain here, with only minimal supplies taken to our main encampment here.” He pointed to a spot at the top of the remains of the massive landslide. He removed twelve blue-colored stones from the box at his side and set them down there, then turned to Quotl. “Where are the other clans, according to your Seeing?”
Quotl gestured for the markers. “The Seeing was done nearly five hours ago, but at that time the Cochen and his forces were approximately here, and Corranu was here, although I assume that his forces will join ours before we arrive at the Break. Claw Lake had emerged here.” He set red-and-white-colored stones to signify the Cochen’s forces, green for Corranu, and yellow for Claw Lake. “The others I can only assume are now where the Cochen ordered them within the warrens.”
Tarramic nodded, his attention already on his eldest son. “Tumak, what did the scouts report?”
Quotl let the report fade into the background as he sucked on the end of his pipe and blew the smoke toward the brazier above, eyes on the map. Pieces shifted around as the dwarren Riders began talking strategy. The idea became obvious when seen on the map rather than the palm of his hand. The landslide, though wide, would provide the only feasible means for the Wraith army to reach the upper plains of Painted Sands, unless they were willing to add over a week to their march by traveling northward to where the Break ended and the grasslands merged with the red sands to the west. They could also travel southward, although the Break ended abruptly in a jumble of rock and stone debris, the land riddled with cracks and crevices, making the movement of such a large army nearly impossible.
And the army must be large, if his Seeing had been correct. The dwarren outnumbered them, but it was still a significant force. Larger than the armies that had clashed on the eastern plains before the Accord. Even at the Cut, the dwarren armies had numbered nearly half of what had been gathered here.
But that had been over five generations ago. The dwarren had multiplied since then. They were once again nearing what their strength had been before the arrival of the Alvritshai and the humans on the plains. The wars with those two races had been devastating.
He shook his head and frowned at himself, focusing on the map again. Tarramic had positioned the Thousand Springs and Painted Sands forces along the breadth of the base of the landslide, Claw Lake and Shadow Moon along the heights to either side. The northern edge of the Break angled mostly east-west, following the slide and providing Claw Lake with the opportunity to cover a retreat of the forces on the ground and hit the army with arrows and spears from above. Shadow Moon would do the same from the southern cliffs, but they would be at a disadvantage since the Break ran more north-south along that ridge. Instead, they would provide cover for the Cochen, Red Sea, and Broken Waters, who would come up from the south on the Wraith army’s flank.
As the dwarren Riders argued about the details-minutia Quotl didn’t think would matter in the final outcome-he contemplated the patterns in the shifting stones, seeking the one that would keep Ilacqua’s and the Four Winds’ favor. He breathed in the smoke from his pipe and the scents he’d thrown into the brazier, felt his body thrumming in response. The stones shifted yet again, Tarramic rearranging them as he barked at his son, and Quotl frowned. The positioning was close, the alignment nearly there. If he factored in the location of Silver Grass, and if he placed the shamans and the trettarus archers with the wood gifted to them by the forest here and here-
He cried out, his exclamation cutting the arguments around the table off as sharply as any sword could have. All of the dwarren Riders turned to face him and he squinted at them in return, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. He let the silence hold, then stuck the end of his pipe in his mouth and inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke before using the end of the pipe to point to the map.
“You are almost there,” he said, letting his voice rumble. “However, I feel that the gods will favor the following more.” Using the stem of his pipe, he pushed a few of the stones into new positions. “The trettarus should be positioned here and here, in small groups so they can move about more easily and select their targets with precision. We do not have many of the forest’s gifts. They must be used sparingly.”
The younger Riders remained silent, turning their attention to Tarramic, who concentrated on the new arrangement with a creased brow, then met Quotl’s gaze through the haze of smoke.
“You say the gods favor this?”
Quotl thought about the portent of the storm, of what it truly foretold, what neither he nor Azuka had been able to voice, had only been able to skirt. But what he had said to Azuka was true: there was nothing any of them could do to challenge it.
He could only arrange matters to minimize the damage.
He nodded.
Tarramic frowned down at the map. Quotl could sense that a few of the Riders did not agree with him, but their opinions did not matter. He knew Tarramic would heed his advice. He was the head shaman, and Tarramic always listened to the gods.
The clan chief finally looked up and muttered, “So be it.”
Moiran stood on the balcony overlooking the open courtyard before the manse, her arms crossed over her chest. In the distance to the east, gray storm clouds loomed, the faint rumble of thunder echoing down through the hills to the lake, although she had yet to see any flashes of lightning. The wind tasted of rain, damp and metallic, and the leaves of the trees that surrounded the courtyard were turned up, exposing their pale undersides to the late spring sunlight.
In counterpoint to the thunder, the clash of weapons rose from the yard below, punctuated by the sharp commands of Fedaureon and Mattalaen, the caitan who had trained Fedaureon and a significant portion of the young men who’d joined the Phalanx at the same time. Daevon, her son’s Protector stood to one side, watching intently.
Now, the caitan drilled them all, the group paired off on the stone cobbles below, swords flashing as they grunted and strove to break through each others’ guard. Moiran kept her eyes on her son. Within a week of Aeren’s warning about the ascension of the Order as a House within the Evant, Fedaureon had the Phalanx on alert, the border patrols increased and the Phalanx here within the House doubled. A week after that, he’d ordered an escalation of the training, so that now the Phalanx within Artillien practiced at least twice a day. Fedaureon participated in nearly all of them. He had always been more military-minded than Aeren, more skilled with the blade and the bow and more adept at military strategy. His anger had only risen the longer the members of the Order of the Flame remained within House lands, his aggression obvious on the training ground below.
Moiran frowned. So far, he had taken his rage out on the practice field. Messengers from Caercaern had arrived at the local temple ten days ago, supposedly relaying the edict of the Evant that all members of the Flame within Rhyssal House lands were to return to the Sanctuary. She had expected them to depart within two days. They hadn’t. Fedaureon had sent a servant down to the temple to ask whether the acolytes required any assistance. Their offer had been flatly refused. The members of the Flame had continued to preach at the daily rituals, without any sign they intended to depart Artillien as ordered.
The next message had been less polite, and had been greeted with total silence, the acolytes of the Order not even allowing the servant into the temple to deliver the message personally to the members of the Flame present. The acolytes had denied the servant coldly, then closed the temple door in her face.
That had been two day ago. The acolytes and the Order were skirting dangerously close to the edge of polite formality. Based on the ferocity of Fedaureon’s attacks on his opponents in the courtyard below, they’d already surpassed the thin edge of his patience. In fact, the rest of those fighting had fallen back to watch Fedaureon spar with a lone attacker.
But that was not what had brought Moiran to the balcony. No. She had sought out Fedaureon for an entirely different matter.
Below, Fedaureon cried out, blade cutting in sharply, his opponent parrying the attack, already worn down. Her son shoved the block aside viciously, stepped into the opening, and brought his elbow up into his opponent’s face, pulling the blow. It still retained enough force to snap the Phalanx guard’s head back and send him reeling to the ground. Mattalaen barked an end to the match and Fedaureon growled, sword already raised for what would have been a killing blow. For a moment, Moiran wasn’t certain her son would heed his caitan, but then the fierce expression dropped from Fedaureon’s face and he grinned, sword lowered as he reached down with his free hand to help his opponent up from the ground.
They dusted off, Mattalaen making some kind of comment regarding the match to each privately before nodding toward where Moiran stood watching. Her son glanced toward her, then sheathed his sword and moved toward the manse’s entrance, Daevon falling in at his side.
Moiran stepped away from the balcony as Mattalaen picked two more men from the ranks and paired them off. She moved into the inner room and took a seat, waiting.
Fedaureon arrived ten minutes later, still sweaty from the fighting, but he’d paused long enough to remove his outermost armor.
“What is it?” he demanded as soon as he entered. His face was flushed and his breath shortened.
She raised an eyebrow and glanced toward Daevon.
“Fedaureon,” the Protector said, his voice level but full of warning.
Her son grimaced, but then caught her demeanor and the impatience that riddled his shoulders and face vanished. He had the grace to appear abashed. “I apologize, Mother. You wished to speak to me?”
Moiran motioned toward the seat across from her. A low table stood between the two chairs, a stack of letters close to her left hand, a platter of cheese and a decanter of wine on her right. She began to pour him a glass as he settled into the chair, coughing slightly as he tried to calm his breathing. His mind was still on the practice field below, though.
“I think I have discovered who Lotaern’s allies are within the Evant,” she said.
Fedaureon stilled, suddenly attentive. “Who? Father has been trying to figure it out for weeks! It’s all that he talks about in his letters.”
“I know.”
“Then how have you figured it out? We don’t have access to the Evant. We can’t see who’s dealing with whom, we only have Father’s letters to go by.”
Moiran smiled, suppressing the motherly urge to say she had her ways. “I used the Ilvaeren.”
Fedaureon fell silent, eyeing her with a frown. Daevon did the same from behind. She handed her son his wine and waited, attempting to still the trembling of her hands. She had never used the Ilvaeren in this way, had never even considered it until two weeks ago, when she realized that some of her routine requests with the Houses she normally traded with were being denied. The refusals had been annoying to begin with, but then she’d begun to sense a pattern.
She wasn’t certain what she’d found was substantial enough to support her claims. She’d spent the last two days trying to organize it and convince herself, before finally sighing and deciding to present it to her son.
And then there was the other issue: the Ilvaeren did not interfere in the Evant. Women were not supposed to dabble in the political field at all. At least in theory.
“I don’t understand,” Fedaureon said, taking a sip of wine before setting the glass aside. “What do you mean you used the Ilvaeren?”
She ignored the guarded doubt that weighed down his words.
“It began over a month ago, although I didn’t notice it at the time. I received this letter from Lady Yssabo of House Redlien. Every year, we purchase a supply of winter barley from Redlien. This year, Vivaen Licaeta bought out not only Redlien’s barley, but their flax as well. I thought it odd at the time, but merely sought out barley from House Uslaen and Ionaen, both of which had some to spare. However, I began running into similar issues with other Houses for other commodities-cloth from Nuant, rice from Baene, even wood from Licaeta and Uslaen.” She’d handed Fedaureon the letter from Yssabo as she spoke, but now she laid out additional letters across the width of the table from the other Houses. “I have never experienced this much trouble obtaining supplies from our fellow Houses in my term here as the Lady of House Rhyssal, nor as the Tamaea of Resue.
“And then I began to realize that the majority of the commodities were being bought up by only a few of the Houses, in particular Licaeta and Ionaen, although Uslaen appears to have begun buying similar supplies lately.”
“Perhaps they are simply short this year, their crops not as plentiful as they had hoped.”
Moiran hesitated at the interruption, one hand clenching in her lap before she forced it to relax. She nodded. “I thought so as well. So I began taking a closer look.” She gathered up the letters she’d already presented and set them aside. New pages replaced the first, although these were written in Moiran’s hand. “I started an accounting of all of the supplies that I was aware of through the Ilvaeren. This isn’t an exact accounting, since no House has the right to request the trade books of any other House, but even so.… Look how much grain Licaeta has purchased in the last few months.”
Fedaureon, Lady Yssabo’s letter still in one hand, leaned forward and regarded the page Moiran indicated. He stilled, then motioned Daevon forward, the Protector taking that as tacit permission to look as well. Moiran didn’t protest; she knew Daevon well enough to believe that he would support her.
“That’s enough grain to feed Rhyssal for over a year,” Fedaureon said.
“Nearly a year and a half. Why would they need so much grain? Why does House Ionaen need so much wood? Or Uslaen so much iron from Nuant?”
Fedaureon leaned back, glanced toward Daevon.
The Protector’s eyebrows rose. “It is a significant amount of resources. One House should not need so much of a single material.”
Fedaureon nodded, his attention returning to Moiran. “What do you think?”
She drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I think that Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen are preparing for… something significant. I believe they are stocking up on food and other supplies.”
“?‘Something significant,’?” Fedaureon said. “Such as what? And how does this connect to the Chosen and the Order of Aielan?”
“I don’t know. But none of those Houses has ever done anything without forethought. And all of those Houses have opposed us in the past.”
Fedaureon was silent for a long moment, then abruptly leaned forward, tossing Yssabo’s letter onto the table. “It’s not enough.”
Moiran stiffened, anger sparking in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that it’s not enough. Father can’t take this before the Evant. What if Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen have a legitimate reason for purchasing all of these supplies, a reason we are unaware of?”
“Like what?”
Fedaureon shrugged. “A trade agreement with the dwarren or the humans, perhaps? We have no idea what arrangements they’ve made, what the humans or dwarren might be interested in. We each have agreements with different Provinces and clans. They do not detail every individual trade made and for what commodity. They are generalized. It’s possible that the Licaetan grain that could supply the House for a year and a half has already been shipped to their trade partners in Borangst, or even overseas to Andover. Lord Daesor announced a new trade deal with Andover at the opening session.” He waved a hand and said again, “It’s not enough. Not for the Evant.”
“I wasn’t intending to bring it before the Evant,” Moiran said.
Fedaureon’s eyes narrowed. “You want to know if I think it’s solid enough to warn Father.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you already sent a missive to him?”
She nearly chuckled at the suspicion in his voice. “No, Fedaureon. I wanted your opinion first. I know the evidence is thin, but my instinct warns me that this is significant.”
Mollified, Fedaureon scanned the letters she’d presented, the papers containing the lists of supplies shifting hands within the Ilvaeren. Moiran met Daevon’s gaze over his head and the Protector nodded, his mouth pressed into a grim line. She and Aeren had worked hard this past year to ease Fedaureon into his role as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House. Since Aeren’s departure, he had taken on that role more competently than Moiran had expected, and in the last few weeks had shown some independence in his decisions. He’d sent the servants to the temple without seeking out Moiran’s opinion, had made adjustments to the daily routine of the Phalanx on his own. She wasn’t certain how much Daevon had guided these decisions, but she wanted to encourage Fedaureon’s independence as much as possible.
Fedaureon leaned back. “I think your instincts are correct. Father needs to be informed. Perhaps Lords Peloroun and Orraen do have legitimate trades established for this wood and iron, but I doubt it. If he knows where to look, maybe Father can determine what’s really going on.” He stood, his impatience returning. The clash of steel still rang from outside, even though the wind had picked up. “Did you want to warn him, or should I?”
“I believe you should, as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House.”