“I don’t need an escort,” Colin protested.
“But you will have one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.
“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.
The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the knife that you carry.” Lotaern did not drop his gaze from Colin to the satchel slung across his chest where the knife rested, wrapped in chain mail, but Colin tensed anyway. “That knife may be the only weapon we have against the Wraiths, the only object that can kill them. It cannot be lost. If you travel alone and the Wraiths find you…” He let the thought trail off, then added, “We cannot allow it to fall into the Wraiths’ hands.”
Colin’s knuckles turned white and with conscious effort he forced himself to relax. He’d spent the last one hundred and twenty-seven years since the Accord more or less alone. He’d traveled the land, worked with the Alvritshai, the dwarren, the Faelehgre, searched for the Wells and created the Trees, but almost always by himself, isolated, withdrawn from the world. Even the time spent with Aeren, Moiran, their son Fedaureon, and Eraeth eventually ended, the Lord of House Rhyssal drawn into the politics of the Evant, Moiran focusing on their new son and the Ilvaeren and the economic stability of the House. Colin had found himself visiting them far less often than immediately after the Accord, preferring the seclusion of the Ostraell and the white ruins of Terra’nor.
But Lotaern was correct: the knife had to be protected, guarded. Entrusting it to one person, even himself, could not be allowed. His isolation would have to end, unless he gave the knife to someone else, and that he would not do. Not until it had been tested and proven effective. Not until another weapon like it could be made.
And not until Walter was dead.
His shoulders slumped, although he let his anger darken his face, allowed his reluctance to tinge his voice. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll allow an escort of the Order. No more than four, I’ll want to travel as swiftly as possible. And they will follow my orders only.”
And if the need arose, he could always abandon them. They could not hold him prisoner, could not contain him.
He saw the same thought flicker through Lotaern’s eyes, but the Chosen turned to Vaeren. “Assemble the group. You’ll lead, but use only members of the Flame. Take whatever you feel is necessary from the Order.”
“I’ll want to take Siobhaen.” When Lotaern hesitated, Vaeren added, “She’s the best warrior you have, the most skilled with the Light.”
Lotaern grimaced. “Very well.”
“Also Boraeus and Petraen.”
The Chosen’s eyebrows rose. “Both brothers?”
“The two work well together.”
“Fine. Send word and have them gather here by dawn.”
“No.”
Both Lotaern and Vaeren turned toward him in surprise. Colin knew it was petty, but he didn’t like the sudden loss of control he felt. “If you want me to have an escort, assemble it now. I’ll give you an hour.”
“There’s no reason-” Lotaern began, but Colin halted him with a look.
Vaeren nodded, sent his fellow member of the Flame off in search of the two brothers, then gave Colin a threatening glance before stalking off into the depths of the Sanctuary, leaving Lotaern and Colin alone.
Colin watched his retreating back. “He doesn’t approve of me.”
“He doesn’t revere you, as so many within the Order do, acolytes and Flame alike. He sees you as a threat to the Order, to me.”
“Do you?”
Lotaern met Colin’s gaze, held it for a long moment. “You are not Alvritshai, not part of the Evant, and you have your own motivations, your own agenda. But the greatest threat you represent is that you are… unpredictable.”
Colin smiled. “Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
Colin turned away from Lotaern’s scowl and moved into the depths of the main chamber. One of the acolytes looked up from his prayers at the scuff of his feet on the flagstone floor, then reached forward, rubbing his fingers in the soot that had stained the low stone pedestal beneath the wide bowl, spillover from when the bowl was filled with fire. He smudged the soot onto his cheek beneath his eye, as Colin had seen Aeren do so long ago, when he’d first met Lotaern. Then the acolyte rose and drifted from the chamber.
Colin moved to the edge of the bowl, where the acolyte had knelt, and stared into the empty depths. The scent of oil was stronger here, as if it had leached into the stone of the basin. The contours of the room amplified the sounds surrounding him, but blurred them as well. He heard murmurs from the depths of the Sanctuary as acolytes conversed, the scuffle of feet, and the flutter of wings from a bird trapped in the upper reaches of the chamber.
He glanced up and caught sight of the bird as it flitted from one of the stone-carved arches above to another, settling in a corner niche, its brown coloring blending into the gray of the stone.
“I never intended the Winter Tree to be a burden,” he said suddenly, his voice louder than he expected in the depths of the room. “I thought you’d welcome the protection it would bring the Alvritshai from the Shadows. I thought I’d have your support.”
Behind, he felt Lotaern still, then shift forward into the chamber. In the eighty-odd years since Colin had arrived with the Winter Tree’s seed in hand, they had rarely spoken of that day in the Evant. Even while working on the knife with Aielan’s Light they had carefully skirted the topic.
When the Chosen finally spoke, his voice was guarded. “I did welcome the protection, as did all of the acolytes and the Order of the Flame. The years without it, with the sukrael attacking Alvritshai lands, were horrible. The Flame and Phalanx did their best to protect the Alvritshai, but the sukrael were too difficult to track and attacked at random, without warning. The Phalanx could not harm them, their swords useless, and so they were relegated to evacuating towns and villages and cities when necessary, or diverting the sukrael with their own lives. And the Flame…”
He’d moved into the periphery of Colin’s sight, and Colin saw him shudder. “I went there with them, of course. We tried to use Aielan’s Light against them, and it worked to some extent. The Light burns them, harms them. But to be effective we needed to prepare, which meant we needed to know where the sukrael were going to attack ahead of time. If we arrived after the attack had begun, the sukrael would simply flee before we could bring Aielan’s Light to bear.” He shook his head, mouth pulled down in a grim frown. “It was hideous: the loss of life, the panic of the people within the sukrael’s hunting ground, the uncertainty. The Order couldn’t offer anyone solace.”
He turned to look at Colin directly. “You brought them solace with the Winter Tree. You allowed them to return to their land and resume their lives. But the way in which you brought the Winter Tree.” His face tightened with anger. “You should have brought it to me. I should have been the one to present it to the Evant. Its power obviously fell within the domain of the Order, not the Evant, not Lord Aeren nor the Tamaell. I should have been given time to plan, to find the best location for its planting. It should never have been placed in the center of Caercaern, in the marketplace!”
Colin’s gaze had dropped from the bird toward Lotaern. He didn’t like the assumption of authority he heard in the Chosen’s voice, nor the fact that Lotaern felt his authority rose above that of the Tamaell. “The placement in the marketplace was a mistake. I did not realize that it would quicken so fast.”
“That doesn’t matter now. It was planted in the marketplace, and has since been walled off, the plaza now a garden sanctuary maintained by the Order.”
Controlled by the Order, Colin thought. Aeren had told him how Lotaern had sealed access to the Tree from the Evant, how he’d established Wardens to care for it even as the Flame guarded it and kept it from the Alvritshai, all with the sanction of the Evant, most of whose lords welcomed and feared the Tree’s power at the same time. It had become another way for Lotaern to control the Alvritshai, and through the lords, the Evant.
If Lotaern expected Colin to apologize for bringing the Tree to Aeren first, or to the Tamaell, he would be disappointed.
They heard Vaeren’s approach, his boots thumping through the chamber, moving swiftly, accompanied by the footfalls of another. Both the Chosen and Colin turned as the caitan of the Order of the Flame appeared in the foyer, his gaze flickering with irritation before he caught sight of them near the bowl. He and the woman, Siobhaen, approached, both dressed in the armor of the Flame, wrists banded with metal, the heavy cloth over their chests emblazoned with the stylized white flames of Aielan, boot heels harsh on the flagstone floor, although Colin noticed that Siobhaen’s tread was much softer than Vaeren’s. Siobhaen’s long black hair was pulled back into a braid behind her head and she caught Colin with a sharp, searching glare, her light brown eyes flicking up and down once. Colin felt as if he’d been sized up and dismissed in the space of a heartbeat and straightened in indignation. Her features were narrow, made more severe by having her hair pulled back, but softened by small silver earrings.
Vaeren had changed into different armor as well, something more suited to traveling long distances. His hair had been tied back with a length of leather. “I’ve ordered the acolytes to bring horses to the main plaza for us, readied with supplies,” he said, ignoring Colin completely.
Before Lotaern could answer, two more members of the Flame appeared. Dressed like Vaeren, they came up behind the caitan and nodded toward Lotaern formally. The Chosen had straightened, assuming the mantle of his power. They were younger than Vaeren, but obviously related, their eyes the same dark gray.
“Is everything prepared?”
“No,” Siobhaen said. “Not yet. There is still one more thing to do.”
When the brothers shot her a curious glance, she moved toward the bowl, knelt on one knee, and lowered her head. Colin could hear her murmuring beneath her breath.
When he looked up, he caught the brothers rolling their eyes. Vaeren gave them a look and with sudden solemnity they both knelt.
A moment later, Siobhaen reached forward and smudged soot along her cheek, the two brothers following suit. Then all three rose.
“Now we are ready,” Vaeren said.
The entire group moved to the main entrance, acolytes pulling open the doors as they approached. Gusts of winter air pushed through, and Colin hoped that the acolytes had thought to include warmer clothes in his own set of supplies. Even as he thought it, one of the acolytes stepped forward and presented him with a second satchel. Inside, he found clothing of an Alvritshai cut and the Order’s colors, a bedroll, bowls and utensils, and other assorted tools for the road.
He pulled the clothing free. “I’ll need to change,” he said to Vaeren and Lotaern.
The Chosen motioned him away. As the acolyte showed him to a room, he and Vaeren spoke to each other quietly, too low for Colin to catch.
A few minutes later, he joined the Order of the Flame outside in the Sanctuary’s plaza, the stone obelisks surrounding them on all sides. The Alvritshai clothing fit, even though Colin fidgeted with its unfamiliar cut, a little too tight in the shoulders for his taste.
Lotaern had just finished a blessing, the Flame members rising. He turned to Colin as they mounted the waiting horses. “Find out what’s causing the storms, Shaeveran.”
Colin didn’t answer the command, merely swinging up into the saddle of his own horse. He remembered when the Alvritshai had been afraid of horses, when he and his family had first ventured onto the plains and met Aeren and Eraeth.
The Chosen backed away, his acolytes following him into the protection of the door’s alcove, away from the wind.
“Why are we leaving in the middle of the night?” one of the brothers asked, barely above a whisper. “Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”
The other brother shrugged.
Colin turned to Vaeren.
“Where to first?” the caitan asked. “Rhyssal House lands to see Lord Aeren?”
“No,” Colin said. “To the Winter Tree. I need to verify that the Trees have not been affected.”
Vaeren’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded.
They wound their way through the darkened streets of Caercaern, lit sparsely by lanterns or candlelight from high windows, Colin tugging the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands against the chill. Vaeren took the lead with Siobhaen, the two brothers trailing behind. Only a few Alvritshai were out at this hour, hurrying from one spot of warmth to another, bundled up and hunched into their clothes. No one paid them any attention. Most windows were dark, but a few of the shops they passed, mostly bakeries by the strong smell of bread that drifted from them, showed chinks of lantern light. In a few hours, the streets would be bustling with the thousands of Alvritshai that lived in the city, thronged with pull-carts and wagons, the citizens dressed in the loose clothing and conical straw hats of commoners. He glanced toward the third tier, where most of the lords kept their own houses when the Evant was in session, then higher to where the Tamaell resided in the highest of the tiers, towering over the city, but the buildings were lost in the darkness. Then he turned his attention south. The storm he had seen from the top of the Sanctuary had moved too far away to be visible.
Ahead, Vaeren and Siobhaen slowed and he shifted in his saddle, looking up to where the Winter Tree towered above them. They’d reached the wall that surrounded it, had stopped at one of the gates. Vaeren spoke to the Warden who responded to his knock on the heavy wooden door.
The door opened and they ducked through the stone arc of the wall into what had once been Caercaern’s largest marketplace.
Colin remembered what the plaza had looked like the first time he’d been here with Aeren and Eraeth. It had stretched nearly the entire width of the tier, had been twice as long, the colonnades of the Hall of the Evant on the far side appearing distant. And it had been packed with people, tents, wagons tilted onto their sides, blankets spread onto the wide flagstones, and tables of every variety of produce and goods imaginable. It had taken Aeren and his escort nearly an hour to work their way across to the Hall.
Now, the entire area had been transformed to deal with the Winter Tree. The flagstones had been ripped up and soil carted in and packed down to allow for a garden. Trees had been planted on the outer fringes near the wall, but as soon as they stepped inside, Colin could see that only grass grew beneath the shadow of the Winter Tree’s branches, the lowest of which were too high to be reached even by ladder. The Tree obscured the Hall of the Evant, and in the darkness beneath it Colin could barely make out the wide trunk and its gnarled roots. But he could hear the wind in the branches above, thrashing in the leaves, and he could see where the Wardens had established crushed stone paths beneath those branches, winding out and around sculptures of stone and statues, benches and small basins of water.
The gate closed behind them, the Warden who’d opened it appearing nervous. Vaeren turned toward Colin. “What do you need to do?”
“I need to touch the Tree. And I’ll need some time.”
He nodded, then turned to the waiting Warden. “We’ll leave the horses here. Fetch us lanterns, and inform the head Warden that we’ll be at the bole.”
The Warden scurried off; without a word Siobhaen dismounted and headed toward the center of the gardens, the rest following suit.
The branches of the Tree closed in overhead almost immediately, the thrashing of the leaves muted to a soothing rustle. Wood creaked and groaned, but the deeper they moved beneath the Tree’s massive protection, the fainter those sounds grew. The metallic taste of winter tinged each breath, mingling with the acrid and earthy smell of bark as they drew nearer the bole.
Halfway to the trunk, a group of five Wardens arrived with lanterns, the footing becoming treacherous as roots began to break through the earth. The procession-strangely formal now-edged through the roots as they grew more and more tangled, increasing in thickness until they were the width of Colin’s thigh. A moment later, they reached the base of the Tree.
They stood on the root system and stared up into the latticework of branches above, barely within the reach of the lantern’s light. Colin could see the awe of the members of the Flame as they searched the heights, could feel the Tree itself pulsing beneath his feet. He drew its scent in with every breath. The Wardens were unaffected, waiting calmly to either side.
“Wait here,” Colin said. He could have reached down and touched the Tree through the roots at his feet, but he wanted to be closer, nearer to its heart. He left his staff behind, waved away the offering of one of the lanterns, then began climbing the roots in front of him. The satchel proved an annoyance, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the knife it held behind. He clutched the dry, dark bark, and scrambled higher until he’d moved beyond the lantern light, until the bole shot skyward before him. The scent of the Tree enfolded him here, the air no longer chill with winter, as if the Tree were generating its own heat, like that generated by peat in a bog. He settled into position, then reached out and placed both of his hands against the rough bark of the bole and closed his eyes.
The essence of the Tree wrapped around him instantly. Like that of his staff or the heartwood given to him by the Ostraell, it throbbed with life, but this was a thousand times more powerful. It overwhelmed him instantly and drew him in, recognizing him, his taste. He may have gasped; he couldn’t tell, his awareness of the outside world and his body subsumed by the sudden sensations of the Winter Tree itself. Wind lashed at its branches, tossing the leaves to and fro, the trunk swaying beneath the tumult. Far beneath, the roots dug deeper and deeper into the earth and stone of the mountain, reaching for underground streams and the nutrients of the soil; reaching also for the heady pulse of power that Colin recognized as Aielan’s Light deep within the mountain. The Tree sensed that power, strained for it, recognized it as a part of itself.
All of those were outside influences. In its heart, at its core, Colin settled into the surge of sap, the fluid rush of the Tree’s life. It enfolded him with warmth, with a shuddering, coruscating sensation of motion, smothering him from all sides. He let it course through him, reveled in its amber strength, its power tinged with the white of Aielan’s Light and the rose of the Confluence, and then he stretched out along that power and tested its reach. He searched for flaws, for signs of disease or weakness, reaching farther and farther, to the fringes of the Tree itself, stretching out beyond the confines of Caercaern, out into the surrounding lands where the power of the Winter Tree held sway. The farther from the Tree he roamed, the weaker that power became, but he didn’t sense any damage.
Then, near the edge of the Tree’s influence, out well beyond the shadow of the mountains, he felt the touch of the Winter Tree’s siblings. To the southwest, on the plains, he tasted the sugary sap of the Autumn Tree, planted outside the human city of Temeritt; to the southeast, the golden savor of the Summer Tree flooded his senses from the central plains of the dwarren, beyond the Ostraell. He explored their tastes for a long moment through their connections to the Winter Tree, searching them for damage as well. He couldn’t be as thorough from such a distance, but he could not sense any disease, and so he drew back, pulled himself back to the heart of the Winter Tree, back to Caercaern. He allowed the flow of the Tree’s life to soothe him for a long moment, then separated himself from its embrace, not without effort, and back into his own body.
He sucked in a sharp breath as a wave of dizziness enfolded him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. A moment later he felt the bark of the Tree pressing into his forehead, and he pulled back. He sagged down to his knees, and as he sank, he turned, letting his hands fall to his sides.
The sun had risen. It streamed down through the branches on the outskirts of the Tree, the area around the bole still shrouded in darkness, the leaves and branches above too thick to allow the light to penetrate here. He could see the lanterns of the Warders below, could see the members of the Flame as well. They appeared distant. He hadn’t realized he’d climbed so high.
One of them pointed toward him and he heard a faint shout, filled with concern. Two of the Wardens began making their way frantically up the roots.
“I’m fine,” he called out and waved, but they didn’t slow.
He watched them ascend, not moving, not knowing if he could move. His arms hung at his sides, hands pooled in his lap where he sat. The life-force of the Tree throbbed through his back. He felt distant and lethargic.
“Shaeveran!”
He glanced down, saw one of the Wardens scrambling up the last stretch of root to his position. The youth’s face was wide with panic and fear and Colin suddenly remembered what Lotaern had said back at the Sanctuary, that most of the acolytes and the Flame revered him.
“So different from the reactions of my own kind,” Colin muttered to himself. He hadn’t journeyed through human lands in decades. His name was legend there as well, but tainted by fear and suspicion. At least along the coasts.
“Shaeveran! Are you all right?” The youth reached Colin and fell to his knees, one hand on Colin’s shoulder, the other checking for damage. His fingers brushed Colin’s forehead and came away sticky with blood. He must have scraped his head against the bark of the Tree without realizing.
The Warden frowned and dug in his pocket for a cloth.
“I’m fine,” Colin said, pushing the cloth away in irritation as the Warden dabbed at his forehead. “I’m just… exhausted. I shouldn’t have spent so much energy on the Tree after working with Aielan’s Light.”
The second Warden arrived. “Is he hurt?” he gasped, out of breath from his climb. This Warden was older, his face red from exertion, but his tone was more practical.
“He says he’s simply exhausted, but he’s bleeding-”
“It’s just a scrape,” Colin said, then gathered himself and rose, using the Tree behind him for support. “We should rejoin Vaeren.”
The older Warden scanned his forehead, then nodded. “Very well.”
They descended. Colin regained his strength as they climbed down, although he did require the Wardens’ help at one treacherous point where the roots were nearly vertical for a stretch; he didn’t want to risk expending energy shifting into a younger form. By the time they’d reached the pooled lantern light of Vaeren’s group, he’d recovered enough to glare when Vaeren demanded, “What happened?”
“Nothing. I overextended myself, but I’m fine.” He reached for his staff, took strength from the life-force pulsing inside as he gripped the wood.
“And the Tree?” Vaeren glanced toward the thick bole before them, expression tight with concern.
“The Trees are fine. Whatever is causing the storms hasn’t affected them at all. They’re still protecting the Alvritshai, dwarren, and human lands from the Wraiths and the Shadows.”
Everyone, including the Wardens, relaxed perceptibly. The young Warden heaved a sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks to Aielan.
“Then what next?”
Colin began moving back toward the gates, picking his way carefully through the tangled roots, using his staff for support.
“Now,” he said, grunting as his foot slid stepping down from one rounded knob to another. The others followed him, spread out to either side. “Now we see Lord Aeren.”
He clutched the satchel containing the knife to his side as he said it. He didn’t trust Vaeren and the Flame. He didn’t trust Lotaern.
Which meant he needed someone in the group on his side.
It was winter, so only the Tamaell resided in Caercaern. The rest of the Lords of the Evant had withdrawn to their own House lands, to ride out the winter months in the confines of their own homes. Including Aeren.
Vaeren led the small group down from the heights of Caercaern into the surrounding hills and woodland, the outer wall of the city falling away and obscured by trees almost instantly. For a brief moment, Colin stared back at the expanse of Caercaern. Sunlight glared off the white-gray stonework, off the intricate architecture, the subtle lines of the buildings slanting inward and up, giving the impression that the entire city was somehow stretching toward the heavens. The Winter Tree reached for those heights as well, its leaves of silver flickering brightly as they were riffled by the breeze. Behind, spray from the many cascading falls behind the city drifted and sparkled, catching the light and refracting it into rainbow prisms.
When it became obscured, Colin turned back, the forest shading the stone roadway. He’d traveled Alvritshai lands many times, but only recently with time slowed and never with a horse. He already felt aches and pains emerging in his thighs and backside from riding, but he found the people crowding the roadway with their carts, herd animals, and families more annoying.
“Do you hate us so much?”
He turned, startled, to find Siobhaen watching him intently from one side as they pressed their horses through the throng of people on the tail end of the road that angled up to Caercaern. It emptied out onto the wide main east-west road, where the traffic appeared to be flowing more smoothly, but here at the junction it was chaos.
“I don’t hate the Alvritshai,” he said. “If anything, I’m more comfortable with the Alvritshai than the dwarren. Certainly more than with my own race, who have willfully forgotten me.”
Doubt crossed Siobhaen’s eyes. “It would not appear so, the way you were frowning at the common people.” She waved toward the morass of people and animals below.
“I wasn’t frowning in distaste. I was frowning in annoyance. If I’d been traveling alone, I would have slowed time, slid past everyone, and been five miles distant in the time it’s taken us to move the last hundred feet.”
She considered him for a long moment, expressionless. “You should be more careful what emotions you show. Some might misinterpret them.” She glanced around at the rest of the members of the Flame, the two brothers arguing with each other twenty paces back, Vaeren ahead waiting impatiently for a cart to move out of his way. “Could you stop time for all of us?” she asked, turning with a raised eyebrow.
He smiled warily, wondering how much Lotaern had revealed to the Order about his powers, how much Vaeren, Siobhaen, and the two brothers knew. “It doesn’t work that way. I’d have to be touching all of you, to carry you along with me, and while I’ve grown in strength the last hundred and twenty-odd years, I’m not sure I’d be able to handle all four of you.” He thought back to the time he’d saved Moiran from the occumaen on the plains, and the time he’d taken King Stephan back to witness his father’s death in order to end the battle at the Escarpment. “It could tear me apart.”
“I see.” She did not try to hide her disappointment. With a sigh, she nudged her horse forward, taking advantage as an empty space opened up to one side.
Half an hour later they were on the main road, headed at a much swifter pace to the west.
Toward Rhyssal House lands.
Eight days later, they emerged onto a ledge, the road curling around a promontory of stone, offering a view of the valley and lake below. At one end, the lake reflected the slate-gray clouds above, a narrow swath of water that widened like a teardrop, embracing a stone hillock. Lord Aeren’s manse sat on top of the hill overlooking the lake, the tiered levels wider and flatter than most of the buildings they’d passed on the journey here, enclosed by a low wall.
The town of Artillien spread out across the base of the hillock, a single path leading up to the lord’s house from the fair-sized collection of buildings, larger than most of the towns and villages they’d passed through in the rest of the House lands, but not the largest. Below the town, filling nearly the entire breadth of the wide valley, were fields now covered in the feet of snow dropped by the two storms that had passed through in the last eight days. The hills and trees all around were cloaked with the most recent fall.
Distantly, they heard the chimes of the town’s temple to Aielan declaring terciern.
“We should reach it before dusk,” Vaeren said. Without turning, he asked, “Will Lord Aeren be expecting us?”
Colin shook his head. “No, but he’ll welcome us.” He couldn’t keep the anticipation from his voice. It thrummed through his arms, stuttered in his heart; he hadn’t seen Aeren or Moiran in what felt like ages.
Dociern had already rung, the thin winter sunlight fading from the sky, when Colin knocked on the heavy wooden doors banded with iron at the Rhyssal House gates. His breath fogged the air in the lantern light as he waited, the temperature dropping quickly as the sun set. Inside, he heard movement and a moment later the door creaked open, one of the Rhyssal House Phalanx glaring out. The man’s gaze raked Colin, taking in his staff, his cloak, and the horse Vaeren held behind. It paused as he noted the white flame emblem of the Order.
He stiffened slightly. “Who calls on the Rhyssal House at this hour?”
“Tell Lord Aeren, Lady Moiran, and Fedaureon that Colin Patris Harten and an escort of the Order of the Flame are here to see them.”
The man’s eyes widened and he whispered, “Shaeveran,” under his breath, pulling back slightly. Then he regained his composure and motioned them inside stiffly. “Lord Aeren welcomes you, of course,” he said. “You can leave your horses here. They will be attended to shortly. Allow me to escort you to the main house.”
They stepped into a courtyard lined with ornamental trees now leafless but laced with white snow, branches weighted down so heavily that some touched the ground. A wide path had been cleared, splitting almost immediately as one arched off toward the stable yard, the other leading toward the main entrance to the manse. A second guard rang a bell set inside a small enclosure to one side and two additional Phalanx and two servants appeared from the direction of the stable. The servants took charge of the horses, the two Phalanx remaining behind to man the entrance.
As soon as they entered Aeren’s manse, the Phalanx guard caught a passing servant and issued orders. The man bowed formally, shot a glance toward Colin, then darted into one of the halls and vanished. Colin scanned the inner room, the paneled walls carved with intricate garden scenes, lanterns hung from the heavy wooden ceiling beams overhead. The floor immediately inside the entrance was stone for easier cleaning of snowmelt and mud from boots and shoes. The stone gave way to wood in the hall on the far side. A table sat to either side of the entrance, one containing some type of potted shrub pruned into the shape of a windswept tree, its roots clinging to moss-covered stone, the other holding a collection of blown glass vases. Banners in the blue and red of Rhyssal House hung on the wall above them, the wings of an eagle-the House sigil-embroidered in gold on the split field.
A moment later, he heard footsteps coming from the left. Moiran appeared, dressed in Rhyssal House colors, smiling broadly. “Shaeveran! What an unexpected surprise!” Her gaze shot toward Vaeren and the rest of the Flame standing awkwardly behind Colin and creases appeared in her forehead between her eyebrows, the evidence of the frown there and then gone in the space of a heartbeat. Her gaze locked with his, and he saw the question there even as she said, “And you’ve brought guests. From the Order.”
The only outward indication of the sudden tension in the air was the stiffening of the Phalanx member who had escorted them to the manse from the gate.
“Yes. There is news from Caercaern. This isn’t a social visit.”
Moiran’s head bowed, strain tainting her smile. “That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.” She stepped forward and hugged him, hands on his shoulders as she drew back. As with Lotaern, Colin noticed the small signs of age on her face, the lines around her eyes, the dullness of her hair. The lantern light even glinted off a few strands of gray. “It’s been too long,” she said, and squeezed his shoulders before stepping back.
It was more emotion than the Alvritshai usually allowed themselves to share in public.
More formally, she turned to include all of the Order. “A light meal is being prepared. If you wouldn’t mind leaving your bags, they’ll be taken to rooms being made ready for your stay. Servants will show you to the kitchens.” She turned to Colin. “Lord Aeren is waiting in our private chambers.”
Servants appeared behind her as Vaeren and the others shrugged out of their satchels and cloaks. They gathered the supplies together and vanished down the opposite hall, Colin keeping the satchel containing the knife across his shoulder. Siobhaen and the two brothers were led away by another servant, but Vaeren remained at Colin’s side, daring him to protest. Moiran’s eyebrow rose in question, but he shook his head slightly in warning.
She led them to one of Aeren’s outer rooms. A fire blazed in the hearth, the room warmer than the entrance, the soft light glowing on the many glass objects strewn around the room on tables and desks and amidst more carefully trimmed plants and small trees. A large desk took up most of the central area, the wide top littered with books and papers and spent quills and ink bottles. Another desk off to one side was draped with blue-and-red cloth and held a single fat white candle in a gold basin, surrounded by a dagger, a sword, a locket with a fine silver chain, and the pendant Colin recognized as the sign of Aeren’s successful completion of his studies as an acolyte at the Sanctuary.
Aeren sat in one of an array of chairs around a low table and stood as Moiran arrived. His smile didn’t falter at all when Vaeren entered behind him, although he folded his hands before him.
“Colin, it’s good to see you. You know Eraeth, of course,” he said motioning toward his Protector, who stood as always to one side. Eraeth’s gaze had settled on Vaeren, the two watching each other silently. “And my son, Fedaureon, along with his Protector, Daevon.”
Daevon nodded formally, darker and broader of shoulder than Eraeth, with the same deadly stance all of the Phalanx used. But when Fedaureon rose from his seat beside his father, Colin had to stifle a gasp, his eyes widening. “Fedaureon?”
The young man-young by Alvritshai standards-smiled and stepped forward to take Colin’s hand in a human handshake. “Yes, Shaeveran, it’s me.”
“You’ve… grown.”
Fedaureon laughed and motioned toward the chairs spread around the low table as servants appeared carrying decanters of wine, glasses, and platters of food. “It’s been nearly twenty-five years since you last saw me,” he said. “I’m not surprised I look different. Sit. My father and I were discussing the Evant and current trade negotiations with the Provinces and Andover. We could use a diversion.”
Aeren frowned as everyone settled and when Fedaureon took his seat beside his father Colin glanced back and forth between them. Fedaureon looked like a younger version of his father in every respect except the eyes; he had Moiran’s green eyes.
“He looks like you when I first met you on the plains,” Colin said with a tight smile to Aeren. The smile broadened when Eraeth snorted. “A slightly older version of you.”
“There is a resemblance, yes,” Moiran muttered. “Please, eat, drink. Your travels must have been harsh with the recent storms. Was the snow troublesome? Were the roads kept clear?”
“For the most part,” Colin said. “We had no serious trouble, it was merely-”
“Annoying,” Vaeren interjected.
No one reached for the food; they were all waiting for Colin, he realized.
He took one of the small plates on one of the trays and began with a few slices of the smoked meat he recognized as gaezel from the plains, ladling a spicy sauce that smelled of oranges over it. As soon as he started, the rest leaned forward for their own trays.
“I was going to say it was merely an inconvenience,” he said dryly. “I should introduce my traveling companions. Vaeren is caitan of the Order of the Flame. The others are Siobhaen, Boreaus, and Petraen, also members of the Flame.”
Aeren nodded to Vaeren. “Welcome to Rhyssal House.”
“Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality,” Vaeren answered. “May Aielan’s Light guide your House to prosperity.”
“It has.” Aeren’s gaze drifted to Colin. “So what brings you to Rhyssal at this time of year, and with such company?”
“The sarenavriell.”
Aeren, Moiran, and Eraeth stilled. Fedaureon and Daevon looked confused. It was not what they had expected.
Moiran was the first to move, reaching to pour some wine, but it was Aeren who spoke.
“The sarenavriell?” His voice was troubled. “I thought the Wells had been stabilized.”
“I thought so as well. For that matter, they may still be stabilized.”
“What makes you think otherwise?”
“Do you remember the storms on the plains?”
“They are impossible to forget. They were violent, their winds harsh, driving the rain so hard it felt as if it would scour your skin raw. And the lightning was… unnatural. Wicked. The thunder growling in your chest.”
Colin shuddered, recalling the viciousness of the storm that had caught the wagon train as it fled from the dwarren. He caught Aeren’s eyes and saw the same memory reflected there.
Fedaureon stirred. “What are you talking about? What storms?”
Aeren shook his head. “You would not know. The storms had been part of the plains since the arrival of the Alvritshai south of the Hauttaeren Mountains. The dwarren say that they were always part of the plains, as far back as their shamans can remember. But in the years before the Accord, the storms began to grow in intensity.”
“The number and size of the occumaen as well,” Moiran added. A shiver ran down her arms as if she were chilled, and her gaze met Colin’s, her eyes sad.
“Yes. The occumaen also became more prevalent. Shaeveran thought that the storms and the occumaen were the result of the awakening of the Wells by the Wraiths. He thought their actions were causing an imbalance, and that the storms and the occumaen were the side effects.”
Colin nodded. “After the Accord, I intended to see if I could correct the imbalance and stop the storms, but the attacks of the Wraiths on Alvritshai and dwarren lands grew too intense. I spent years trying to help the two races fight them, before finally realizing that something more drastic needed to be done. I created the Seasonal Trees so that the threat of the Wraiths and the Shadows would be halted, and after their seeding I focused my attention on the stability of the Wells. It took thirty years, and I lost count of how many times I faced the Wraiths and the Shadows, but I achieved a balance.”
“And the storms stopped,” Aeren said. “The occumaen faded. There hasn’t been an instance of either since you were born, Fedaureon.”
“Until now,” Vaeren said, and Aeren, Eraeth, and Moiran turned toward him.
He stood, his stance formal, as if he were addressing Lotaern in the Sanctuary, or the Lords of the Evant in the Hall. “Over a month ago, one of the acolytes from an outer temple on Uslaen House lands arrived at the Sanctuary with word of such a storm that ravaged the town the temple served. The Chosen did not believe him and sent a party of the Flame to verify the account. Since then, numerous reports of the storms have been drifting in from Redlien, Ionaen, and Licaeta, as well as Uslaen. A missive was sent to the dwarren shamans, the reply received two weeks ago. It appears a resurgence of the storms has been reported across the breadth of the plains. The occumaen as well. When Shaeveran appeared in the Sanctuary, we thought it was because of the recent activity.”
“But I hadn’t heard of the storms,” Colin said. “I was in Caercaern for a different reason.” He picked up the satchel he’d placed on the floor near his feet and removed the fine chain-metal cloth that held the knife. Aware that Vaeren frowned down at him in disapproval, he set the cloth on the table between the trays of food and then opened its folds.
The reddish-yellow color of the knife appeared to glow in the flickering firelight. Aeren and Fedaureon leaned forward, Eraeth and Daevon stepping away from their respective corners. Moiran leaned back with a frown.
Aeren shot Colin a hard look. “Does it work?”
“Does what work?” Daevon asked. “What is it?”
“It’s a knife that I believe will be able to kill one of the Wraiths. A knife that should be able to kill the sukrael.”
“Should?” Eraeth asked sharply.
Colin glanced up with a small smile. “It hasn’t been tested. Yet.”
Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, and Colin could see the sudden urgency in his expression. He wanted to test the blade himself, but he made no move to pick it up. None of the Alvritshai did.
“I found Lotaern to inform him about the knife,” Colin said, sitting back. “That’s when he took me to the Sanctuary’s roof and showed me one of the storms on the horizon. I told him that I would investigate, but Lotaern felt that an escort was necessary.”
Aeren said nothing, but Colin knew that both he and Eraeth heard what he had not said. The knife lay between them, although neither of them glanced toward it. After a moment, Aeren nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible.
“That does not explain why you came here,” Moiran said into the silence.
“No, it does not. The problem with our theory that the stability of the Wells has been altered is that I placed wardings on all of them, to keep the Wraiths away as well as everyone else. None of those wardings have been disturbed. The Seasonal Trees protect all but three of the Wells from interference by the Wraiths and Shadows, but Lotaern feels that the Wraiths have found a way around the wardings, and so, with my escort, we are going to these three Wells to see if they have been touched or if the wardings have been tampered with.”
“And where are these three Wells?” Aeren asked.
“Do you have a map?”
Aeren motioned to his son, who stood and began sorting through the papers on the large desk, Eraeth and Daevon moving over a moment later to help him.
“The Wells are outside the influence of the Trees, obviously. One of them lies far to the south, beneath the lands settled by the Provinces,” Colin said as they waited. He felt Vaeren listening intently. He wondered yet again what his orders from Lotaern were, but shrugged that aside. “The second lies to the west, across the Arduon, in Andover.”
Aeren’s eyebrows rose in shock. “I had not realized there were sarenavriell in Andover.”
“Neither had we,” Vaeren said sharply, anger threading through his voice. Colin assumed he meant Lotaern and the Order. The fact they had not known was strangely satisfying.
“There is only the one, as far as I know,” he said.
At the desk, Daevon and Eraeth had halted their search at this revelation, but Fedaureon cried out and pulled a sheaf of papers from a stack. He sorted through them as he came to the table, while Moiran moved the trays of forgotten food to one side to make room.
“Here,” he said, setting down a map of the Hauttaeren Mountains and Alvritshai lands. Each of the eight Houses were marked with different shades of color, Caercaern and the major cities black dots with swirling script, black lines marking roads and trade routes connecting them. Everyone, Moiran and the Flame included, Eraeth looking over Aeren’s shoulder, leaned forward as Colin perused the map to orient himself.
“And the third,” he said, turning the page toward him and pointing, “is right here.” He glanced up, met Aeren’s gaze squarely. “In the White Wastes.”