“It is… an opportunity.”
Moiran spoke carefully as she moved across the bed-chamber toward the window, afraid to let herself hope. She pushed the heavy curtains aside so that she could look out over the city, to where the sun set on the horizon. Sharp orange light spilled into the room, changing to a burnished gold before it began to fade as the sun vanished.
Behind her, she heard Fedorem grunt.
She closed her eyes, then sighed and turned.
Fedorem had settled into the chair behind the desk shoved into one corner. Candles had been lit throughout the room, giving the translucent drapes on the bed an ethereal glow. Wardrobes flanked the bed, and in the corner opposite Fedorem’s desk, chairs were arranged around a low table for intimate conversations. That corner was Moiran’s. An abstract glass sculpture in deep red shot with streaks of yellow sat in the center of the table, but it was rarely used.
As Fedorem reached for a stack of papers, Moiran frowned.
The desk was a recent addition to the room, brought in a few months after Fedorem had returned from the Escarpment. She had fought placing the desk here. She’d wanted this room to be theirs and only theirs, a sanctuary for both of them, without the taint of the Evant and the other lords upon it. But the Evant tainted everything.
Even Fedorem.
She let the curtains fall back into place, shutting out the darkness.
“What do you intend to do about Lord Aeren?” she asked. “About this meeting with the dwarren?”
Fedorem glanced up from his papers. “What business is that of the Tamaea?”
Moiran snorted, moving into the room. “Anything that may affect the stewardship of the House or my role as head of the Ilvaeran-the body that controls all of the economic resources of the Houses-is the business of the Tamaea. Peace with the dwarren could affect both. But more importantly, it’s the Tamaea’s business when it affects her Tamaell.”
His eyebrows rose, but not in annoyance. “And has it affected the Tamaell?”
“Yes, it has.”
“How so?”
A hard pressure seized Moiran’s chest, the hope surging up from her heart unwanted. She shoved it back down forcefully.
“It’s changed you, my Tamaell,” she said, searching his face. “It’s drained you.”
He stiffened, and she could sense his withdrawal, could feel him pulling away.
“Have you looked at yourself lately?” she asked. She moved to his side, took the papers from him, and caught hold of his hands. “Have you seen yourself? You aren’t sick, but you aren’t well.” She hesitated, but he hadn’t retreated, hadn’t withdrawn from her as he’d done so often in the last thirty years.
“It’s the Escarpment,” she said, the words thick, rushing up and out from the pressure in her chest. She felt his hands tense beneath hers, begin to pull back, but she tightened her grip and continued, relentless. “That’s where it started, there and the months before. You made a mistake, and ever since you returned from that battle, it has eaten at you, destroyed you from within. You need to acknowledge what you did, begin to make amends, and this is your opportuni-”
“Enough!”
The word cracked through the room, but Moiran didn’t flinch.
Instead, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed.
Fedorem saw and sighed wearily. “Enough, Moiran. We’ve been over this before. I will not speak of what happened at the Escarpment. It has passed.”
“But it hasn’t passed,” Moiran said, surprised at how rough her voice sounded, how torn. She could hear tears she had never allowed herself to shed beneath the words, fought against them, overrode them with anger. “It will never pass, not when you refuse to speak of it. Not when you refuse to acknowledge what happened. Lord Aeren is trying to move beyond what happened at the Escarpment. He’s trying to correct it. You-” The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out, tasting their bitterness. “You’ve buried it, ignored it, and look what it has done to you! You’ve become tainted by it! Controlled by it!”
Fedorem jerked his hands free from hers. “It does not control me.”
“Ha!” Moiran stepped back. “The event may not control you, but those who participated in it do.”
Fedorem’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Can you be so blind?” she asked softly. “After all these years of manipulating the Lords of the Evant, can you not see how you are being manipulated in turn?”
Fedorem flinched, a gesture Moiran saw in his eyes, more than in any motion of his body. And with that one gesture, she realized that he knew, had known, and had allowed it to happen.
“Aielan’s Light,” she whispered, her voice thready. All her anger had vanished. She felt hollow, even the hardness in her chest gone. “You knew.”
She turned away and moved across the room toward her own wardrobe, opening its doors and riffling through the clothes that hung there, not seeing them, the material rough against her skin. Her hands tingled, as if numbed, and she realized her entire body trembled.
“Who in the Evant is manipulating me?” Fedorem asked, his voice following her, laced with warning, yet somehow distant.
When she didn’t answer, she heard him rise from his desk, his papers forgotten, heard him cross the room and felt his presence behind her. She started when he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Who do you believe is manipulating me?” he asked again, softer. But she could feel the tension in his grip.
She broke free and turned to face him. “Lord Khalaek,” she spat viciously. “Lord Khalaek is manipulating you. He’s been doing so since the betrayal of the human King at the Escarpment, the betrayal that you have condoned through your silence. By not denouncing the uprising of some of your own lords, members of your own Evant, there on the battlefield, you have given those lords your tacit support. You have given those lords power. And because Lord Khalaek is at the center of those lords, you have implicitly given him power. The other lords, like Aeren, don’t know what to think, and because they are outnumbered by Khalaek and his supporters, they dare not approach you or oppose you. You are the Tamaell! You could have halted his rise in the Evant over the last thirty years. All you had to do was admit that your support of Khalaek back then was a mistake. But no. Lord Khalaek is using your stubbornness and your own mistake to control you. And you’re letting him do it. ” She glared at him, not letting her gaze falter, knowing that there were tears in her eyes and hating them, knowing that the corners of her mouth trembled, even though her lips were pressed tight together. “He’s trying to seize the Evant, Fedorem. How often does he come here to Caercaern? How often is he here, in the fifth tier, in our personal chambers, our private garden?”
Fedorem’s hands lowered slowly, but she could see him considering what she’d said, could see him thinking.
“It has torn the Evant apart, my Tamaell,” Moiran added. “It is tearing us apart.”
And the tight frown that creased his brow gave her hope.
“Fedorem has called for a meeting of the Evant in two days,” Aeren said, then glanced up from the announcement to catch Eraeth’s gaze. His Protector raised one eyebrow in surprise. “All of the lords have been summoned, by the Tamaell himself.”
“Sooner than expected.”
“Yes. And the official summons is unexpected as well. Especially after seeing Lord Khalaek in the gardens last night.” Aeren frowned, troubled, as he let the paper announcing the meeting fall to his desk. He settled into the chair, heard it creak beneath him as he stared at the litter of parchment, the sleek feather quill and bottle of ink, without really seeing them.
Eraeth grunted. “What does it mean?”
“It means we will have to meet with the Lords of the Evant individually before the general meeting in two days. We have to convince them that it’s in their best interests to hear the dwarren out, regardless of what Lord Khalaek may be saying to the contrary.”
“Lord Barak will support you.”
Aeren nodded. “Without question. He is of the same mind as I regarding trade and the hostilities on the plains. But neither of us has as much power within the Evant as we’d like… or as we used to.”
Eraeth said nothing, but Aeren had already heard his thoughts on the descent of his House within the Evant. Part of it was due to the fact that Aeren had not yet bonded and produced an heir, and part of it was that Aeren himself was not as ruthless and ambitious as most of the other lords, especially Khalaek. His brother Aureon had been both. No one had expected Aeren to ascend to lord of the House. Which was why he’d become an acolyte in the Order.
But even that wasn’t the real reason his House had fallen within the Evant.
“It all comes back to the Escarpment,” he said with a sigh. When Eraeth merely raised one eyebrow in question, he continued. “Since the betrayal of the human King at the Escarpment, Lord Khalaek and his supporters-Lords Peloroun, Waerren, and Jydell-have ascended in the Evant, with the support of the Tamaell.”
“The Tamaell has never officially shown support for any of those lords.”
Aeren smiled slightly. Eraeth’s voice had taken on the same tone he’d used as Aeren’s tutor when he was younger. “Not aloud, no. Unspoken support. And his unspoken support, along with those four lords, gives Khalaek the majority in the Evant.” His smile faded. “He should have denounced Khalaek and the other lords who attacked King Maarten at the Escarpment the moment it occurred. The battle had ended. An alliance had been made.”
“Unless the Tamaell knew of the betrayal beforehand, unless he intended to betray the King all along.”
Aeren frowned heavily. “That is the real question, isn’t it? Did the Tamaell intend the betrayal or not? Was he part of the plan?” He met Eraeth’s steady gaze. “I wish I’d been there with the lords at the end. I wish I’d seen how it played out. Then I would know. But I was. .. elsewhere.”
Eraeth said nothing to the roughness in Aeren’s voice. “And none of the other lords know, those who were there?”
Aeren shook his head. “None who are willing to challenge the Tamaell and Khalaek openly, and none who are willing to speak bluntly in private. They are afraid of Khalaek and the power he has gained, power given to him by the Tamaell with his unspoken support.”
“So who do you need to convince to help you in the Evant with the dwarren?”
Aeren stood, suddenly restless, the memories of the battle at the Escarpment unsettling him. “Not Khalaek, obviously. And I’ve done what I can with the Tamaell already.”
“Peloroun? Waerren and Jydell?”
“Peloroun will follow Khalaek’s lead. Waerren as well. But Jydell
… he has shown some independence recently within the Evant.”
“Which only leaves Vaersoom.”
“I’ll speak to him as well. But his lands border the dwarren lands. He has faced more attacks from the dwarren in the past thirty years than anyone else, has suffered more losses.”
“But he doesn’t support Khalaek outright.”
Aeren grunted in agreement. He moved away from his desk, from the notes and correspondence of the Evant and the running of his House.
The room was meant as a meeting room, and it was where Aeren conducted most of the business of Rhyssal House while he was in Caercaern. Ornamental carpets covered the stone floors, and tapestries and a large map filled what little wall space remained between the numerous shelves full of books and artifacts-dwarren, Alvritshai, and human-that he’d collected through the years. But tucked against one wall, in its own little alcove, rested a small table, the Rhyssal House banner hanging above. Blue cloth covered the table in rumpled folds, and on top On it lay the memories of his family.
His hands brushed lightly over his mother’s brooch, silver with a white inlay of marbled stone. He touched his father’s knife, ran his finger along the flat of the blade, then skipped over to his second brother’s cattan. Fingers closed over the hilt, and he picked it up, pulled the sheath free in one smooth motion, the metal humming. A familiar tension pulled his shoulders taut as he remembered holding his brother’s body at the Escarpment, Aureon still clutching this blade, even as he coughed up blood from the wound in his chest. Aeren had tried to stanch the flow, had tried to save him…
His knuckles turned white where they gripped the leather-wrapped handle, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he resheathed the blade and set it back in its place. He grabbed the silver- chained necklace resting beside it, closing the white-gold pendant in the shape of flames inside his fist before turning.
“Get Colin,” Aeren said. “It’s time to pay our respects to Aielan and the Light. We’re going to the Sanctuary.”
Aeren slid the white-gold flame pendant-symbol of the Order and a signal indicating his standing within the Order-over his neck outside the huge Sanctuary doors. Made entirely of banded wood, the doors glowed in the late morning sunlight, the iron gates that were closed at night already flung open, black against the white-gray of the temple walls to either side. The steps before the doors were littered with small offerings-flowers and shallow bowls of wine mostly-but the wide open plaza itself was empty. Dociern, the second sounding of the chimes, had occurred a short time before, and those who would gather for the third would not arrive for hours.
Pendant settled, Aeren hesitated.
“You believe him,” Eraeth said, eyes flickering toward Colin, standing to one side, gaping at the temple. They were speaking Alvritshai.
“Yes. And I believe it is something the Evant does not have the power to handle.”
Aeren moved to the Sanctuary doors and knocked. Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and drew him near. The two accompanying Phalanx flanked them.
After a long moment, the massive wooden doors eased open, moving smoothly, effortlessly, without sound. A frowning acolyte peered out, his gaze flickering over Aeren. “The terciern service will not begin gathering for another-” he began automatically, in a slightly irritated voice.
And then his gaze grazed the pendant on Aeren’s chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, nearly choked on it.
“I need to speak to Lotaern, the Chosen,” Aeren said. “Immediately. Tell him it regards the Order, not the Evant.”
The words startled the acolyte, who bowed in apology to Aeren. “I will find Lotaern and relay the message.”
He stepped back, pushing the door open wider as he did so, and Aeren passed through the vestibule and into the sanctuary proper. As soon as the rounded room opened up before him, lit with a thousand burning candles, the scent of tallow and incense and smoke and oil settling over him like a cloak, he felt the tension slough from his shoulders. He breathed in the heavy scents and released them with a long sigh, bowing his head at the edge of the room, at the edge of its heat, letting the chamber’s silence and calm seep through him.
Then, lifting his head, he moved toward the center of the room with purpose, to where a shallow basin stood on a low pedestal. Flames burned in the basin, roiling upward, but low. During a ceremony-one of the numerous feasts, or the bonding of a lord and lady-the basin would fill with flame, tendrils of it spilling over its edges. And during a major festival-a solstice or one of the celestial events such as an alignment or an eclipse-the fires would burn white, burn with Aielan’s Light. The floor was stained with soot around the basin’s lip, and with slow reverence, Aeren moved to this ring of shadowed darkness and knelt, bowing his head.
He found his center, pulled himself to it as he had been trained to do as one of the Order’s acolytes so many years before, and then he pulled in all of the sensations of the chamber-the smells, the soft whuffling of flames, the echoes of the tread of feet trapped in the domed space above-drew all of it in and used it to soothe the ache in his chest. An ache he’d lived with for more years than he could count, an ache that had become unbearable after the loss of his brother.
He heard the acolyte return, his sandals scraping against the stone floor, hurried, and so he murmured a prayer of thanks to Aielan, traced a finger in the greasy ash-gray soot on the floor, smudging it along one cheek. Then he stood, turning to face the acolyte as he arrived.
The acolyte bowed, again in apology. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but Lotaern said to show you to his chambers immediately.”
“You have disturbed nothing. Lead the way.”
The acolyte drew them out of the main sanctuary into the familiar corridors beyond. They passed a dining hall where acolytes were already preparing for the afternoon meal, a bustling kitchen, a smaller chamber mimicking the outer one for individual prayer by the acolytes themselves, and numerous personal chambers where the acolytes lived. Found by the members of the Order as they traveled Alvritshai lands or worked in the smaller temples scattered throughout nearly all the cities and towns, the acolytes were from all levels of Alvritshai society. Each had displayed a talent, power given to them by Aielan, or had volunteered to serve the Order like Aeren, but only those who had studied and passed through Aielan’s Light could bear the pendant Aeren wore about his neck. As they walked, as he relived a thousand memories from his time here as an acolyte, he found his hand gripping the pendant.
He would have remained here, if given a choice. Few managed to pass through Aielan’s Light unscathed. Most did not even take the risk, preferring to remain acolytes. But Aeren had needed to prove something-to Lotaern and to himself-before returning to the duties forced upon him by his House. So he’d faced Aielan’s Light, hidden deep within the halls and tunnels of the Sanctuary beneath the mountain.
They drew up before a large door, and here the acolyte knocked hesitantly. A gruff voice bellowed for them to enter, and the acolyte pulled the door open and motioned Aeren and the others through before vanishing down the corridor without looking back.
Aeren hesitated a moment. He’d spoken to Lotaern on many previous occasions, during the Sanctuary’s official ceremonies, but those meetings had occurred in the outer chamber or in one of the rooms reserved for meetings close to it. He’d never met with Lotaern here.
As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of earth and green foliage and some type of flower overwhelmed him. Every available surface of the inner room was covered with plants. They sat on tables, on pedestals, hung from the huge wooden crossbeams that supported the ceiling, and climbed trellises and lattices secured to the walls, reaching toward the sunlight that streamed in from the windows high overhead. A few of the trees bore round fruit-small oranges and bright yellow lemons.
“Come in,” Lotaern barked from the opposite side of the room, where a worktable had been shoved against the wall. He hovered over a small shrub, tsking as he turned over leaf after leaf with a troubled frown. Grumbling to himself, he moved the plant to one side and turned his attention to Aeren. His gaze skimmed over the others but halted as it fell on Colin. His brow furrowed.
“Now,” he said, “to what do I owe the honor of this unofficial visit from one of my more promising acolytes?”
Aeren motioned toward the still open doorway. “May I?”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. As one of the Phalanx moved to close the door, then remained there to guard it, Aeren met Lotaern’s dark gaze squarely and said, “I come because of the sarenavriell… and the sukrael.”
Lotaern’s body went rigid, and all emotion drained from his face. “The sarenavriell.”
“And the sukrael,” Aeren repeated. He realized he’d shifted his stance slightly, that Eraeth and the other Phalanx had done so as well, on guard now, wary. Because Lotaern had not reacted the way Aeren thought he would. “You aren’t surprised.”
Lotaern didn’t move. “I am surprised. I did not expect you to come here and mention the sarenavriell. I assumed this would concern the Evant and the summons sent by the Tamaell. Obviously, it regards your recent return and whatever news you have brought with you.”
“And yet,” Aeren repeated, “you aren’t surprised.”
Lotaern said nothing, still motionless, eyes unreadable. And then he smiled. A grim smile. “You read me too easily, Lord Aeren. Not many within the Evant can do that.”
Aeren bowed his head. “You honor me.”
Lotaern snorted. “I’m not certain I meant it as a compliment.” He turned away as Aeren raised his head. “What have you come to ask me about the sarenavriell?”
“I do not come to ask. I’m here to warn you.”
Lotaern’s hand fell to the desk. “Warn me of what?”
Aeren didn’t understand Lotaern’s reaction. He could feel the tension in the air, could hear it in Lotaern’s troubled voice. Something else was going on here, something that Aeren knew nothing about. He shared a glance with Eraeth, saw the uncertain shake of his head.
Lotaern turned back, his expression hard. “Warn me of what?”
Aeren drew his shoulders back. “While I crossed the plains on my return from the Provinces, I learned that the extent of the sarenavriell has increased.”
“How do you know this? Were you attacked by the sukrael?”
“No. We were told so by this man, this human.” Lotaern’s gaze fell on Colin and Aeren watched as the human drew himself up to his full height, his eyes darkening as Lotaern appraised him and, with a sniff, dismissed him.
“And you believe him.” A statement, but laced with condescension.
Aeren felt a flash of irritation. “I believe him, yes.”
“Why?”
Aeren answered carefully. “When I first met him on the plains, during my Trial, he was a boy.” Lotaern’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he shot Colin another considering look. “I befriended him and all of those on the wagon train, including his father, believing that they were a sign, of significance to my Trial. They had just come onto the plains, did not know of its dangers-the dwarren, the storms, the occumaen.”
“More of a danger now than back then,” Lotaern muttered, then apologized for his interruption with a wave of his hand. “Please continue.”
“I tried to warn them away, but it was difficult. We did not speak the same language. They refused to turn back, even when we showed them the burned wagons and slaughtered bodies of a previous party that had run into the dwarren. By this time, we had ventured far into dwarren territory, and we had been noticed. Their wagon train was attacked, but only by a scouting party. When the dwarren were driven away, they returned to their tent city, where an army of dwarren had already been gathered.
“The wagon train was caught between three clans and the sukrael’s forest. My attempts to warn them of the sukrael were futile. They took refuge near the forest and were attacked by the sukrael. Colin claims to have been found by the antruel, the Guardians of the forest, people he calls the Faelehgre. He says they led him to the sarenavriell, that they had him drink its waters.”
A deep frown etched lines of disbelief into Lotaern’s face. “I don’t believe it.”
“How else do you explain his presence? It has been over sixty years since my Trial, and yet here he stands, looking no older than thirty.”
“Tell him of his… abilities,” Eraeth murmured softly.
“What abilities?” Lotaern snapped.
Aeren sighed, head bowed, before looking up. “He can alter his appearance so that he is young or old at whim. And he can travel swiftly, faster than any of us. I have no other explanation for these abilities except the sarenavriell.”
Lotaern turned back to Colin, drifted forward. He drew up close to the human, glared down at him, at least a foot taller, then he leaned forward, so close Colin shifted back slightly before halting himself with clenched jaw and curled fists.
Lotaern sniffed at Colin’s neck, a long indrawn breath, and held it, eyes closed.
Colin sent Aeren a confused, angry glance, but Aeren shook his head.
When Lotaern drew back again, the glare had been replaced by a thoughtful expression. “He smells of the forest. The deep forest. He smells of the Lifeblood.” He hesitated, eyes narrowed, then snatched up Colin’s arm, pulling the sleeve back roughly, exposing the black mark. Aeren was shocked to discover the mark had grown, tendrils extending away from the wrist toward the elbow.
Lotaern grunted, then let Colin’s hand go. In Andovan, he said, “Become young. Show me what you looked like when you and Aeren first met.”
Colin’s eyes widened in surprise, Aeren guessed because of Lotaern’s fluent Andovan, but then they narrowed in anger. One hand covered the mark on his arm. “You sniffed me!”
Lotaern ignored him. “Convince me that you have touched the sarenavriell.”
Colin snorted, but then he shifted. Skin tightened and muscles toned, until the boy Aeren remembered from their first encounter stood in the center of the room, back rigid, his gaze not wavering from Lotaern’s, whose eyes had widened. The rest of the Phalanx in the room shifted in discomfort. There were no gasps, no sharply indrawn breaths. The Phalanx had already heard of or seen Colin’s powers, and Lotaern was too much of a lord in his own right to react.
“Can you hold this form? Can you become younger? Older?”
“I can become any age I want up to my own current age and stay there for as long as I want.”
In Alvritshai, Aeren interjected, “He was older when we met in Portstown. He seems to be growing younger the longer he stays with us.”
Lotaern nodded. His disbelief had faded completely, and he now had a scholarly look. “He claims that the Well’s influence has widened?” he asked Aeren.
“He claims more. He says that the sukrael have created something he calls Wraiths and that those Wraiths have left the forest. The Faelehgre told him this. They also told him that there are other sarenavriell, dormant ones, and that somehow they are being reawakened.”
Lotaern’s gaze had hardened. “And has he seen these… dormant Wells?”
“He has seen one of the newly reawakened ones.”
“Where?”
“In the northern part of the forest, not that far from the Licaeta House borders.”
Lotaern grunted as if struck and spun away from both Aeren and Colin. From the side, Aeren could see the Chosen pinching his lower lip between his fingers, head bowed, brow creased in furious thought.
“Forgive me, Chosen, but it appears that you knew something of this already.”
“And?” Lotaern let his hand drop, the lines of concern smoothing from his face. He became a lord, letting nothing show.
Aeren felt his irritation spike. “I came to you with this knowledge so that something could be done.”
The Chosen sighed heavily and began pacing, moving to the far side of the desk. “You put me in an awkward position, Lord Aeren. The Chosen’s purpose is to guard the secrets of the Scripts, and to advise the Evant in the event that something… unnatural occurs. The Order was established for this purpose. What you have revealed is one of those secrets, one that every acolyte of a certain rank is sworn to protect, one that I have sworn to protect. I cannot reveal such a secret on a whim, and certainly not on the word of a single human.”
“But the sukrael-”
“I was not finished,” Lotaern said. He came to a halt behind the desk, pressed his hands into its polished surface and leaned forward, catching all of them with his gaze. “I would not believe you, or this human, except for two things. The first is that I have already been approached by the Tamaell and Lord Vaersoom from House Licaeta over an
… incident on Licaeta lands. One of the outposts was attacked over a week ago, the Phalanx members all killed, at their posts, without a mark on their bodies. None of those on duty survived. In addition, a few surrounding Alvritshai villages and towns, those nearest the forest, were also attacked. The few who survived by fleeing report the very shadows themselves came to life to destroy them.”
“The sukrael.”
Lotaern nodded grimly. “Lord Vaersoom discounted the initial stories, believing that the villagers were lying, that there must be some other, more mundane explanation, that perhaps it was the dwarren raiding the borderlands as they have for the past hundred years. But he traveled to one of the towns himself, saw the bodies. Like the Phalanx at the outpost, they were found strewn about the town, dead, without a mark on them. Most had fallen while in the act of harvesting later winter wheat from the fields, their scythes still in their hands.”
Aeren glanced toward Eraeth, saw his Protector’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We’d hoped to arrive in time to warn you.”
Lotaern pushed back from his table. “You have. Before your arrival, I had only suspicions based on vague reports from villagers and the more concrete reports from Lord Vaersoom on the aftermath. You’ve confirmed those suspicions.”
“And did any of these villagers report on these other creatures, the ones Colin calls Wraiths?”
“No. They spoke only of shadows. No figures.”
“So what can we do to protect Licaeta?”
Lotaern grimaced. “I’m not certain. We’ve never had to battle the sukrael directly before. But there are references to them in the Scripts. I have acolytes researching those references already, but now that we have confirmation, I will double our efforts. I’m afraid that for the moment, the only option is to pull the Alvritshai away from the area of the sukrael’s influence. Does this human, Colin, know how far northward their range extends?”
Aeren turned to ask, but before he could speak Colin said, “I know a little Alvritshai. I didn’t waste all of my time in the forest sunk in grief. He’s asking about the Shadows.”
“Yes,” Aeren said in Andovan, wondering how much of the conversation Colin could follow. “He wants to know if you know the extent of the sukrael’s range. They’ve already attacked Alvritshai outposts and villages. And do you know a way to defend against them?”
“I don’t now what their range is, but I do know it’s expanding. The Well that I found, the one the Wraiths have awakened, it’s filling slowly, and as it fills, its range increases. As for killing the sukrael… if you can get them over water, deep water and especially running water, they can’t hold their form.”
Lotaern nodded, frowning in thought. “Our research has pointed to water as a defense on more than one occasion. Perhaps the aqueducts will be useful. I will inform Lord Vaersoom.”
Aeren waited a moment, then said, “You mentioned a second reason?”
Lotaern smiled grimly. “Yes. The second is the fact that nearly a month ago, one of my acolytes came to me with a rather bizarre request. He wished to do research on the Scripts, personal research.”
“On what?” Aeren said, stepping forward toward the desk.
“On the sarenavriell. I agreed to give him access to the Scripts, to allow him to do his research. It is not unheard of, especially when an acolyte has ambition. And this acolyte does. But this request felt
… odd. So I watched him as he did his research, and when he left the Scriptorium, I perused the texts he’d used, noted the passages he’d copied, the maps he’d drawn. Would you care to guess where his interest in the sarenavriell lay? Not on their power, not on their uses, nor the lore surrounding them, but rather-”
“On their location,” Aeren finished.
“Precisely. He’s been researching where the sarenavriell are, attempting to find where they have been hidden. Some of them are known, such as the one in the forest. Most have been lost. But according to the passages this acolyte referred to, one was hidden in the northern forests.”
“This acolyte,” Eraeth said, his voice harsh. “What is his name? What House does he belong to?”
Lotaern gave him a placid look. “Acolytes rescind their House ties when they enter the Order. They are connected to no House, are beholden to no lord.”
Eraeth snorted, but before he could respond, Aeren broke in. “We both know that House ties are not so easily broken, no matter what vows are involved.” He touched the band around his wrist and the two lord’s rings on his fingers. His House had not been forgotten once he entered the Sanctuary.
Lotaern tapped his fingers on the desk. “True. And given what’s been happening in the Evant lately…” He began walking back toward the table against the far wall, where more plants waited. “I expect to be kept apprised of any actions that you take, and to be told of any information that you gather.”
“Of course,” Aeren said, bowing his head. He could feel where his hand gripped the hilt of his cattan. He didn’t know when his hand had drifted to it, but when Lotaern finally spoke, back to them all, he realized he’d already guessed what House the acolyte belonged to.
“The acolyte’s name is Benedine,” Lotaern said, “and he’s originally from House Duvoraen. Lord Khalaek’s House.”
“He’s left the Sanctuary,” Eraeth reported, and Colin watched his face twist into a vicious grin as he crumpled the small note that the Alvritshai boy on the street had handed him in passing.
“Who?” Aeren said, in Andovan, since that’s what Eraeth had used.
“Benedine. The acolyte.”
Aeren grunted, but he remained focused on the plaza ahead and the hundreds of Alvritshai that lined it. They were headed toward the Hall of the Evant, a huge ornate building at the end of the marketplace. Colin could see the thick arched colonnades that surrounded the circular building within, beyond the mass of people, carts, and small tents that had been set up in the plaza itself. Sunlight beat down, but it didn’t take the bite of winter out of the air, nor the metallic sharpness of snow. The marketplace was a cacophony of noise, most of which Colin couldn’t understand, since it was all in Alvritshai. He could pick out phrases and words here and there, but he couldn’t follow entire conversations.
“Dharel is following him,” Eraeth said. He almost reached out to halt Aeren as they forged their way toward the Hall, restraining himself with effort.
Aeren glanced over his shoulder and caught his Protector’s expression. “The Evant intends to meet in three hours,” he said.
“We will return before the meeting begins.”
Aeren frowned. “Very well.”
Eraeth bowed from the waist, gave orders to the rest of Aeren’s Phalanx, then gripped Colin’s arm and dragged him away into the crowd, heading back toward the plaza’s entrance and the streets beyond with a grim glint of anticipation in his eyes.
Halfway back to the street, Colin jerked his arm out of the Protector’s grip. “I’m coming,” he protested. “You don’t have to drag me.”
Eraeth drew up short, his eyes narrowing. Colin felt himself shiver at the raw intensity in Eraeth’s gaze, at the dangerous heat to it But then that heat cooled, and the tension in Eraeth’s shoulders relaxed. “I apologize. But we’ll have to move quickly if we’re to be of any use following the acolyte.”
Colin nodded in return, tugging his shirt back into place, smoothing the folds where Eraeth had gripped his arm. “Lead the way. I can keep up.”
Eraeth frowned at the not so subtle reminder. “Stay close. You’ll draw attention, and you’re safe only as long as you’re with me. Most of the people in Caercaern have lost family to the wars with the Provinces.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed toward the street.
They moved out of the plaza and turned to the right, staying close to the buildings, passing the open doors and windows of businesses, winding past carts laden with produce and wares, one full of straw, another some type of melon. Colin definitely drew attention, mostly shock, titters of laugher, and a few angry glares, but not as much as he’d drawn outside the city, closer to the plains. As they neared the ramp and the gates leading down to the first tier, Colin saw the flash of Rhyssal House colors on one side. Before he could point it out, Eraeth saw it as well and cut sharply to the left.
It was one of the Phalanx in Dharel’s group. The guard tucked the cloth he’d used to catch Eraeth’s attention back into a pocket. He wasn’t dressed in the typical House colors or in the Phalanx’s usual garb. Instead, he wore the flatter, looser clothing of the people in the street, all whites and grays and duns.
Eraeth spoke to him briefly, words too clipped for Colin to follow, then turned a hardened gaze back down the street they’d just traversed.
“What is it?” Colin asked. His breath came in shallow gasps. Eraeth had been moving fast.
Eraeth shot him a glance before returning to his scan of the crowd. “The acolyte is already here, in the second tier.” He turned back to the Phalanx guard, said something in Alvritshai, then nodded. “The acolyte headed toward the courtyard.”
On the far side of the street, a large wrought iron gate stood half-open between two other shops, the bright green of plants on both sides inside the entrance. Sunlight lanced down on the interior, suggesting a large open space.
They slid from the main flow of the crowd, to the right of the courtyard’s entrance. Dharel stood at the corner, back against the building, one foot resting against its side. Every now and then, he’d turn and peer into the courtyard beyond, a passing glance, as if he were bored. When he caught sight of Eraeth and Colin, he straightened. “He’s inside, in the shadows of the far corner, near the fountain. There’s hardly anyone in the courtyard at the moment. I couldn’t enter without being noticed.”
Eraeth scanned the inner courtyard with one glance, no more than a breath long, then turned to Colin with a grim look. “There aren’t many places to hide. It’s an open courtyard, a fountain in the far corner, a few potted plants near the walls, a portico against the back wall. The portico is mostly in the shade, so I can’t see Benedine or if anyone is there with him.” His gaze fell on Colin. “Can you do it?”
“Let’s find out,” Colin said, lacing the words with irritation. Before Eraeth could respond-but not before Colin saw his eyes begin to darken with a sharp reply-Colin let the world slow. The street stilled. People halted in midstep, one man in midfall, the contents of the basket he carried already spilling onto the stone walkway. Colin slid around them all and walked through the open gate and into the courtyard, shivering at the silence.
The courtyard was set up exactly as Eraeth had described. Colin headed straight toward the fountain and the shadows of the portico.
He found the acolyte in the shade of the roof, his back toward Colin. Another Alvritshai faced him, hand raised to accept a folded piece of paper from Benedine, mouth open. His eyes were hard, face etched with angry warning. Dressed like Dharel and the rest, in commoner’s clothing, Colin thought he was actually a member of the Phalanx or a high-ranking member of a House, based on his arrogant posture and the dark hair tied back behind his head. It wasn’t as long as it should be for a commoner.
Colin scanned for a good place to hide so that he could watch or overhear the conversation, but there wasn’t anything beneath the portico except a set of closed doors along the back wall, beneath the roof. Cursing, he stepped back out into the edged sunlight and considered the colonnades.
They were thin, no thicker than his body. But perhaps…
He positioned himself behind one, standing sideways to minimize his profile, sucked in a deep breath, then let time slip back into motion And spat silent curses. The men were speaking Alvritshai. He could only understand a few words they said. He nearly stilled everything again to retreat back to Eraeth, but he halted as the unknown man barked at Benedine, something about a map and the sarenavriell and forests, his voice low but carrying well, even with the gurgling of the fountain to one side. Colin heard the crinkle of paper. He didn’t think the acolyte replied.
A long pause. Colin felt sweat beading on his forehead as he waited, tense; he almost raised a hand to wipe it off but realized that would be seen and stopped himself.
Then the unknown man spoke again, a question, urgent and forceful.
A scuffling of feet, and the acolyte responded, his uncertainty obvious.
The other man berated him, but then his irritation vanished. He sighed heavily, murmured something so low that Colin strained to hear its tenor and tone over the fountain. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of an arm, as if someone had raised their hand to pat someone on the back or grip their shoulder And then he saw the acolyte, heading toward the open courtyard.
He stilled time with a gasp, lurching back from Benedine’s sight, even though he knew the acolyte couldn’t see him. Berating himself, he turned back to the acolyte and the unknown Alvritshai. The meeting was over, and Benedine had headed back to the street. The acolyte couldn’t see the look the other man had given his turned back as he left. A calculated look, so cold that Colin shuddered.
But the unknown man still held the paper in one hand.
And it was unfolded.
Colin skirted to the man’s side so he could see the contents of the note. Most of it was written in Alvritshai and was unreadable, but the rest…
Looking at the man with the note one more time, memorizing the features of his face, the dark eyes, the heavy brow and angular cheekbones, Colin retreated back across the courtyard, positioning himself between Eraeth and Dharel before letting time flow again.
“I couldn’t understand everything that they said,” Colin said in irritation.
All three of the Phalanx members-Eraeth, Dharel, and the man who’d found them near the gates-flinched. All of their hands dropped to their cattans reflexively, but only the unnamed guard actually drew the blade, a few finger’s worth of metal showing in the sunlight before he caught himself.
“Why?” Eraeth asked.
“Because they were speaking Alvritshai,” Colin said dryly.
He felt gratified when Eraeth’s eyebrows rose as he realized their mistake, but then the Protector growled, “You’ll have to learn to speak it. Fluently. And write it.”
Dharel hissed, and they all fell silent.
“What is it?” Eraeth asked, slipping back to the corner near the gate.
“I think Shaeveran may have been spotted. Benedine has stopped.”
Colin edged far enough out into the street so that he could see the inside of the courtyard. Benedine had circled the colonnade Colin had stood behind. He scanned the shade beneath the portico, said something to the man he’d met, and turned back to the sunlight, his brow creased, mouth set in a tight frown.
As his gaze swung to scan the plaza, Eraeth and Dharel withdrew, and Colin stepped to the side, out of view.
Eraeth grinned smugly. “He won’t find anything. He probably caught a flicker of your shadow. Now, what happened? You were there too long to have just retreated.”
“He met with someone beneath the portico. I didn’t recognize him. Benedine gave him a piece of paper, a map of some kind.”
“A map of what?”
“I couldn’t tell. But it had mountains on it, a few rivers. I couldn’t read any of the markings on it. But they did mention the Wells.”
Eraeth growled again, but before he could say anything, Dharel pulled away from the courtyard’s entrance and said, “He’s coming.”
Without a word, Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and steered him toward the street, entering the flow of the passersby smoothly. Colin sighed and almost jerked his arm free again, but Benedine appeared, and Eraeth relaxed his grip. They angled across the street, coming to a halt on the far side before a meat market, the smell of blood strong.
“Do you want us to continue following him?” Dharel asked.
Benedine glanced in both directions, searching, the frown still twisting his mouth, but then he headed back toward the gate and the Sanctuary.
Eraeth nodded. “Go. Let me know if he does anything other than sit in the Sanctuary.”
Dharel grinned, then bled into the crowd. In a matter of a heartbeat, he and the other Phalanx guardsman were lost from sight.
Eraeth turned back to Colin. “We need to reach the Hall and report to Aeren.”
It took them another hour to reach the Hall, the marketplace thronged with too many people hawking wares, even with most of them falling back or shifting out of the way once they spotted Colin and realized, despite his clothing, that he wasn’t Alvritshai. Women ducked their heads and averted their eyes, but not before Colin could catch a flash of emotion-fear, hatred, surprise. One spat on the stone before him, and Eraeth barked something in Alvritshai that made her bow down in supplication, although it wasn’t heartfelt. Men glared openly, their anger barely controlled. The children merely gawked.
They broke through into an open area around the circular colonnades, the Hall tucked away beneath their tall forms. This close, the stonework of the Hall was magnificent, etched and chiseled into myriad reliefs-Alvritshai working the earth with hoe or gathering wheat with scythes and rakes; lords surrounding the Tamaell in a coronation ceremony; Alvritshai bowed down before a huge basin of fire, members of the Order in the background, hands reaching for the sky. Birds of a variety that Colin had never seen, brown with startling flashes of black and swatches of red, flitted among the nooks and crannies of the stonework.
Eraeth headed directly toward the Hall’s entrance, heavy stone double doors, both flung open to the sunlight. He nodded in passing to the Phalanx inside the foyer, a pair for each House of the Evant, then pushed through a set of polished wooden inner doors.
The Hall within was huge, circular arrays of seats surrounding a large open area. The arch of the circle broke on the opposite side from the entrance, where one large throne flanked by two smaller seats sat on a raised platform lined with folds of a heavy, rich, red fabric, accented in white.
The platform was empty, but the floor was not. Lords and their advisers and escorting Phalanx mingled in a loose throng, the rumble of numerous conversations filling the Hall, the colors of their clothing a bright splash in the pale whites and grays of the stonework and the stark white of the marble floor. Eraeth paused at the top of the stairs descending down to the main floor as he searched those gathered for Rhyssal colors. He tugged Colin’s sleeve, nodding to the left. “Aeren is there.”
They moved down the steps. When they reached Aeren’s side, Eraeth edged behind the Alvritshai Aeren was speaking to and caught his attention. A moment later, Aeren broke off his conversation, and Eraeth pulled him to one side.
“What happened?” Aeren asked. He kept his attention focused on Eraeth, but his eyes roamed the room.
“The acolyte met with someone in the courtyard on Brae.”
“Who?”
Eraeth shook his head, lips pursed. “We don’t know. Only Colin saw him.”
“What did he look like?” Aeren asked, his gaze flicking toward Colin.
“He had dark hair, almost black, and he wore common clothing. But I don’t think he was a commoner.”
“Why not?”
“Because his hair wasn’t long enough. He’d tied it back, but it still seemed too short. Longer than either yours or Eraeth’s, though.”
“Most of the lords don’t wear their hair as short as I do,” Aeren said, “nor do their assistants and aides.” His gaze fixed on someone on the floor, and he asked, “Is that him?” with a barely perceptible nod. “The man in black and gold.”
Colin tried to turn casually and noticed that many of the surrounding Alvritshai were looking at him from the corners of their eyes. Sweat broke out on his back, and his skin prickled. He found the man Aeren had pointed out. Dark hair, cropped shorter than a commoner. But this man’s face was narrower, sharper, giving it a predatory look.
The man in black and gold moved and caught Colin’s gaze. Ice cascaded through Colin’s arms, and with effort he tore his eyes away, but not before he saw the corner of the man’s mouth turn upward in a frigid half-smile.
“Who is that?”
Aeren smiled tightly. “That’s Lord Khalaek,” he said blandly, “my rival in the Evant, the one most likely to oppose my proposal today. He arrived a mere fifteen minutes before you did, which is unusual. Is he the man who met with Benedine?”
Colin shook his head. “No. He has black eyes. The man who met Benedine had dark eyes, but they were brown. And Khalaek’s face is too narrow.”
Aeren sighed in disappointment. “It’s too much to expect Khalaek to be meeting with a lowly acolyte directly.” His eyes suddenly narrowed, his brows coming together in a deep frown, eyes locked on the entrance to the Halls.
Both Colin and Eraeth turned to see Lotaern, along with four acolytes, descending the steps.
“What’s he doing here?” Eraeth asked, his voice sharp. The lull in the surrounding conversation that had occurred when Lotaern arrived ended, and the volume suddenly rose higher. “The Order has no power in the Evant, no representation.”
Aeren didn’t answer, moving swiftly across the marble floor among the rest of the gathered lords and aides to speak with the Chosen at the bottom of the steps. Eraeth and Colin trailed behind. When they caught up, Aeren broke off his conversation with Lotaern and turned immediately to Eraeth. “He was summoned by the Tamaell and asked to attend. It must be because of the sukrael and the attacks in Licaeta.” Aeren’s gaze darted around the Hall, then fell on Colin. “What else happened at this meeting?”
Colin shrugged, feeling his hands clenching in frustration. “Nothing. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying. The acolyte passed the other man a piece of paper. It was written in Alvritshai, but looked like some type of map.”
“You didn’t take the note?”
Colin’s eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t. That’s not how it works. I’m there, I can see things and move around, but I can’t move anything else while I’m there. I can take things with me and leave them, but when I let go of them they return to their proper time. They simply change position.”
“Their proper time?” Eraeth asked.
“It’s as if time has slowed. If I concentrate and push hard enough, I can even go backward and visit an event that has already occurred. But I can’t change it in any way. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Eraeth drew breath to ask a question, but Colin anticipated him. “I can’t go forward and see what will happen either. I’ve tried that as well.”
Eraeth let his breath out in a sigh.
“Interesting,” Aeren said, “and potentially useful.” He turned back to the Chosen and spoke in a hushed voice, Lotaern’s gaze falling heavily on Colin, enough to make him shift uncomfortably. Colin had sensed the Chosen’s curiosity about in him since their initial meeting in the Lotaern’s rooms. He thought that curiosity had faded, but now, with Lotaern’s eyes boring into him…
The sharp rap of metal against stone rang out through the hall, echoing in the vaulted ceiling. All conversation ceased, and Colin turned to see an escort of the White Phalanx accented in red and white now surrounding the raised platform containing the throne and flanking seats. Two guardsmen standing at the corners of the platform carried what looked like large metal pikes, which they raised in unison and drove into the marble at their feet, calling the room to order.
Eraeth grabbed Colin’s sleeve to catch his attention, and they followed Aeren to where a section of the circular seating had been draped with cloth of blue and red. Everyone in the Hall moved to their prescribed area as one of the White Phalanx near the platform stepped forward and cleared his throat. As he spoke, Eraeth leaned to the side and translated for Colin.
“This session of the Evant, under the Ascension of House Resue, with all of the Lords of the Houses of the Evant in attendance, and under the auspicious and blessed eye of the Order of Aielan-” here the attendant bowed toward Lotaern, who nodded in acknowledgment as a murmur rose among the lords “-is hereby called to order.” The two Phalanx with the pikes slammed them into the floor twice more. “Tamaell Fedorem, Tamaea Moiran, and Tamaell Presumptive Thaedoren,” the attendant announced. Then he dropped to one knee, back bent, head bowed, hands resting on the upthrust knee.
Colin saw Aeren’s back straighten as the three Alvritshai entered the room, emerging from some hidden doorway behind the platform, the Tamaell first, followed by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. Beside him, Eraeth’s breath caught, and Colin scanned the room, noticed the same shocked wariness on the faces of most of the lords in attendance.
“What is it?” Colin whispered to Eraeth.
“The Tamaell’s heir hasn’t been called to a session of the Evant for nearly twenty years. He shouldn’t even be in Caercaern. He’s part of the White Phalanx, one of their caitans, and he’s been carrying out duties along the dwarren border since a falling out with his father. Each House has its own Phalanx and guards its own borders, but the White Phalanx augments those forces and shares the burden since the Tamaell’s House does not border either the human or the dwarren lands. Since their argument, Thaedoren has elected to remain on the border. The Tamaell must have recalled him.”
“Recalled him in secret,” Aeren added without turning, his voice drifting back to them. “It doesn’t appear that any of the other lords knew of it.”
Colin drew breath to ask what it meant, but at that moment, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive both took their seats at a gesture from the Tamaell. The attendant who had announced him rose and moved swiftly back into the line of Phalanx beneath the platform, all of the guardsmen now standing at attention.
Then the Tamaell began to speak, his deep voice filling the room. After a moment, Colin realized that Eraeth had no intention of translating the entire session, but he tugged on Eraeth’s sleeve and asked, “What’s he saying?”
Eraeth looked down on him with an annoyed glare, then said, “He’s introducing Aeren as the reason for the summons. In a moment, he’s going to hand it over to him. I won’t be able to translate with everyone’s eyes on him, so shut up.”
Before Colin could react, the Tamaell motioned toward Aeren and then settled back onto his throne. Aeren hesitated a moment, head bowed, then rose and stepped out into the central oval.
When he finally spoke, his gaze circling the gathered lords, catching all of their attention, his voice was steady, slow, and purposeful. Colin saw the tension at the corners of his eyes and felt the same power vibrating throughout the chamber that he’d heard in the King’s chambers at Corsair. He struggled to understand what Aeren said, determined that he spoke of the dwarren and assumed it was about the meeting on the plains, but his grasp on Alvritshai was too tenuous. Yet he felt the earnestness behind the words, the conviction.
Colin glanced toward Eraeth, but the Protector was focused entirely on Aeren and on how the other lords were reacting. He sighed and settled back, began taking in the lords and their retinues.
The Chosen of the Order had been seated on the far side of the circle, opposite the Tamaell. He kept his attention on Aeren, but occasionally an attendant would approach and after a discreet pause, or when Aeren had turned slightly away, the Chosen would accept a note, or lean back to receive a whispered message. Often, he would simply nod, or his glance would shoot toward one of the other lords with a frown or small gesture with one hand. Only once did he actually murmur in return, the messenger scurrying back.
Colin followed this messenger with his eyes and grunted to himself when he realized the messenger had come from Lord Khalaek. The lord received the response with a dark, worried frown and glanced toward Lotaern, but the Chosen ignored him. Disgusted, Khalaek’s hand formed into a fist, his glance skipping toward two of the other lords, ones that Colin didn’t know, before settling on the Tamaell.
Colin didn’t know what was going on, but Khalaek appeared troubled.
He’d begun to turn away when a slight movement behind Khalaek caught his eye.
Someone had entered the room late and now shifted forward through the seats to join Khalaek’s retinue. He moved slowly so as not to draw attention to himself, like the messengers, but unlike the messengers, he came from the height of the room, not from those seated around the central circle of the hall.
Colin shifted forward and scanned the room, but neither Eraeth nor Aeren had noticed the new arrival. He turned back in time to see the man slip closer to Khalaek, standing back, waiting patiently to be acknowledged, something held in one hand. His face was turned away, but when Khalaek finally noticed him and leaned back, the man turned and faced Colin directly.
Brown eyes. Angular features. Short hair, but not short enough to be a member of the Phalanx, not long enough to be a commoner.
Colin gasped, the sound cutting through the growing conversation on the floor as more and more lords rose to question Aeren. Aeren cut off, turning toward Colin with a raised eyebrow, but Eraeth spun with a glare, one hand clamping down hard on Colin’s shoulder as he hissed for silence. Colin waved an apology, not daring to look in Khalaek’s direction.
When Aeren turned back to address the Evant again, Colin yanked on Eraeth’s sleeve hard enough that the Protector growled.
“It’s him,” Colin said. “The man who met Benedine.”
Eraeth straightened. “Where?”
“He came in after Aeren started speaking and handed Lord Khalaek a note.”
“The note he got from Benedine?”
“I think so, but I can’t tell from here. Should I-?” He made a fluttering gesture with his hand, but Eraeth’s eyes widened slightly in horror.
“Not here!”
Colin frowned in disgust, but then his gaze fell on Lotaern. The Chosen was watching him with that same concentrated interest he’d shown before. The other lords may have turned their attention back to Aeren, but not Lotaern.
“Keep an eye on him as best you can,” Eraeth said, his own gaze flicking toward Khalaek’s location, but not lingering long. “I’ll inform Aeren.” He shifted forward, so that he stood beside the seat designated for Aeren, unobtrusive, but far enough forward to catch Aeren’s attention.
Colin settled in to watch the man who’d met with Benedine, conscious of Lotaern’s continued interest as a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck.
“-find it distasteful that you would presume to begin talks with the dwarren, let alone the humans, without first seeking the advice and counsel of the Evant,” Lord Peloroun stated. His words were civil, but the tone was bitter. “What of those of us who have lands bordering along the plains? What of our losses over the last hundred years? Do we not have a say in whether peace should be sought with them?”
Aeren didn’t respond at first, waiting to see if Peloroun’s tirade would continue, but the lord shook his head in disgust and returned to his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Aeren could see Lord Jydell and Lord Waerren nodding slightly. None of the issues brought up against his proposal so far had been unexpected, but the resistance he felt from the Evant was greater than he’d anticipated. Yet it wasn’t the lords that bothered him.
It was the Tamaell… and the presence of Lotaern. Fedorem had said nothing since he’d called the session into order and handed the proceedings over to Aeren. He sat in silence, even as the lords attacked him, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive to either side. Aeren risked a quick glance at the three, not certain what the presence of the Tamaea and the Presumptive indicated, but all three were watching him, waiting for him to respond. The Tamaea frowned slightly, but otherwise there was no sign of what any of them were thinking.
As for Lotaern…
He shook his head and turned fully toward Lord Peloroun. “I realize that the majority of the burden placed on the Alvritshai regarding the dwarren has fallen on you and those with lands along the plains, Lord Peloroun, but what I have to offer-what the dwarren seem willing to accept-is a release of that burden from you altogether. Would it not be beneficial to all concerned if the tension along the border eased? How many resources do you and Lords Jydell, Waerren, and Khalaek expend on guarding the border, resources that could be used for something productive, such as farming or the expansion of the irrigation canals?”
“But what of our losses?” Lord Peloroun growled. “What of the destruction the dwarren have caused? What of the loss of life, of family and kin, killed during the raids?”
“You would rather risk the lives of those who remain by continuing to fight, when there is a chance to end it?” Aeren let some of his own pain color his voice. “You are not the only one who has lost family to the dwarren. Do not presume to claim a greater pain than the rest of us-”
He would have continued, but a sharp gasp interrupted him. He cut off and turned to see Colin, eyes wide, Eraeth’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. The human caught Aeren’s gaze and held it, but then waved his hand in mute frustration. As Aeren turned away, he saw Eraeth speaking to him. Aeren turned back to Peloroun, his voice hardening.
“As I was saying, we have all suffered. I, for one, am tired of it.”
“But some of us are not,” Peloroun said, leaning forward. “Some of us have lost sons to the dwarren and are not so ready to forgive.”
“Some of us have lost our entire family to the dwarren,” Aeren countered.
Peloroun rose at the challenge in Aeren’s tone but before he could say anything, Tamaell Fedorem stood and said, “Enough.”
The word sliced through the tension in the room as smoothly as a blade, and everyone’s attention turned toward the platform. Aeren noticed that Eraeth had stood and moved to the edge of the Evant’s inner circle and made his way to his Protector’s side to clear the floor. When Eraeth drew breath to speak, he waved him to silence.
Tamaell Fedorem waited until he had everyone’s attention, the room falling utterly silent, then stepped forward to the edge of the platform, his face impassive.
“As Lord Aeren has pointed out, we have all suffered from this prolonged war with the dwarren and the humans. We have all lost loved ones as well as friends. We are not here to dispute that. And we are not here to determine who has suffered more or less than the others. Such a thing cannot be determined, no matter how long we spend in this room arguing over it.
“What we are here to discuss, and what we are here to decide, is whether or not it is time to seek peace with the dwarren. Lord Aeren has provided us with… an opportunity.” Fedorem smiled tightly and turned to the Tamaea, who bowed her head. “We have been at odds with the dwarren for nearly two hundred years, the war fluctuating, with intense periods of battle and long years of tension and general unrest. During these years, many decisions were made, all with the good of the Alvritshai in mind, even though in retrospect not all of those decisions were… wise.”
A low murmur arose, although it died quickly. Aeren shot a glance at Eraeth, eyes raised in question, but his Protector shrugged. He wondered if the Tamaell’s words refered to the decisions made at the battle at the Escarpment, but there was no way to tell. If they had. ..
If they had, then perhaps there was hope after all.
And as if he were answering that hope, the Tamaell continued. “We have lived in a period of general stability in the last thirty years, since the Escarpment. Mistakes were made then that cannot be easily rectified, but Lord Aeren has given us a chance to start. I think it is time to start.” He cast his gaze out over the Evant, catching each and every lord’s eye.
“There are those who will disagree with me. There are those who feel that what the dwarren have done in the past cannot be so easily forgiven. But I am not willing to let this opportunity pass by. Because of this, I will be traveling to meet with the dwarren, accompanied by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. In addition, I would ask that the Chosen of the Order be part of my escort, as well as Lord Aeren and any of the remaining Lords of the Evant who wish to take part. I will not require this of any of you, and those who chose to remain behind will not be censured in any way.
“But it is time for these skirmishes-these raids and this war-to come to an end. It is time that I begin to rectify the mistakes I have made in the past. If the dwarren are willing, if they are sincere in their offer, then it will come to an end.”
The Tamaell let the silence that followed his announcement hang for a long moment, the lords stunned. Then he turned to Aeren.
“I assume that you will agree to accompany me, Lord Aeren?”
Aeren pulled himself out of shocked immobility and bowed formally. “Of course, Tamaell.”
Fedorem nodded once, then turned to Lotaern. “And you, Chosen?”
“Aielan has always and shall always support peace. May her Light guide us all in this.”
In the end, all protests and disagreements were set aside as all of the lords, including Khalaek, agreed to take part in the meeting on the plains.
“Then it is agreed,” Tamaell Fedorem said. “We shall meet with the dwarren and their Gathering in two weeks time. Gather your escorts. We will depart in two days.”