“Khalaek agreed to come too easily,” Eraeth said in Andovan, so that Colin could understand.
“Especially considering that the Tamaell all but declared that his support of Khalaek and the others over the last thirty years has been a mistake,” Aeren said.
“He still has not answered the real question,” Lotaern muttered as he handed off orders for supplies to be gathered for the envoy to waiting acolytes, then turned his attention toward Colin, Aeren, and Eraeth. They’d gathered in his offices in the Sanctuary, the plants shoved to the side, the room bustling with activity. They were departing tomorrow at dociern, the second chiming. “He didn’t say what his mistake back at the Escarpment was. Did he plan the betrayal of King Maarten, along with Khalaek and the others? Or did he simply take advantage of the opportunity at the time and claim the betrayal as his own?”
When neither Aeren nor Eraeth answered, the silence unsettled, Lotaern grunted and continued. “But I agree. Khalaek agreed too quickly, and because he agreed Lord Peloroun and Lord Waerren agreed to come as well. And now you claim that Benedine’s actions are indeed connected to him?”
“So it would seem. The Phalanx followed Benedine to a courtyard on Brae. There, Benedine met with a man that Colin identified as one of Lord Khalaek’s aides.”
Lotaern swore. As he did, the hairs on Colin’s arms prickled, standing on end. He felt something brush past him, like a gust of wind, and he turned toward the open door to the Chosen’s office with a frown, a shiver coursing through him. He tasted dry leaves in his mouth, smelled damp earth. “What was that?” he asked sharply.
“What was what?” Aeren asked.
“I felt something, like a breeze. And I can smell leaves and earth.”
Eraeth had moved to the door, hand on his cattan, but he turned back now. “I don’t see anything.”
“It must have been a draft,” Lotaern said. “And we are surrounded by plants.”
Everyone looked at Colin, but the scent of leaves and earth was fading now, so he settled back into his seat. Eraeth returned to his position behind Aeren.
“I don’t understand the connection between Benedine, Khalaek, and the awakening of the sarenavriell,” Lotaern said. “It doesn’t make any sense. What is his connection to the Wells? Why does he want to know where they are located?”
“I don’t think he cares about the sarenavriell. His goal has always been control of the Evant. He wants to become the Tamaell.”
“The Wraiths.” All three Alvritshai turned to Colin, and he shifted under their scrutiny. “Khalaek may not care about the sarenavriell, but the Wraiths do. If Khalaek is looking for the locations of the remaining Wells, then he must be doing it for the Wraiths.”
“That,” Lotaern said, his voice heavy and dark, “it not a pleasant thought, and violates at least a dozen of the Order’s tenants.”
“Nevertheless.” Aeren had lowered his head in thought, then looked at Colin. “You said the antruel-the Faelehgre-thought the Wraiths were moving north.” Colin nodded and Aeren turned back to Lotaern. “Khalaek’s lands are north of the forest, to the west of Lord Vaersoom and Licaeta. It’s possible his lands were also attacked by the sukrael, and when he arrived to investigate-”
“He found the Wraiths.” Lotaern drew in a deep breath, although it did little to break the lines of anger that creased his face. “If this is true, then the Wraiths must be offering him something that will help him gain the Evant. But what?”
Aeren shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything that would warrant the risk of releasing the sukrael.”
“Perhaps you misjudge Khalaek’s ambition,” Eraeth said bluntly.
Aeren frowned.
Lotaern stirred and rose from behind his desk, his eyes narrowed in anger. “I think it’s time we spoke to Benedine about his… actions. He may know why Khalaek is interested in the sarenavriell and whether he’s working with the Wraiths.”
They followed Lotaern out of his personal rooms and into the corridors of the Sanctuary. Lotaern waved acolytes away as they made their way past the common areas and into the dormitories. Most took one look at the Chosen’s face and backed off.
“I’ve had Benedine’s activities here in the Sanctuary monitored since you arrived back in Caercaern,” Lotaern said as they arrived before one of the small dormitory rooms. “He keeps to himself mostly,” Lotaern said as he knocked. When no one responded, he frowned and pushed the door open, stepping through. “His main activity is research and-”
Lotaern halted, two steps inside the small room beyond. Colin heard his voice catch, saw his hand tighten on the handle of the door And then the stench of blood hit Colin hard. He gagged, stumbled backward into Eraeth, heard Aeren suck in a sharp breath, hand raised to cover his mouth, and then Eraeth shoved past them all. The Chosen shook himself, then stepped back out into the hall.
“Aielan’s Light,” Aeren gasped, breathing through his mouth. “What is it?”
“Karvel!” Lotaern barked, then called something to an acolyte farther down the hall. The acolyte leaped to retrieve a lantern, rushing toward them. He began to ask something in Alvritsthai.
He didn’t finish, the stench of blood and shit hitting him as he reached the doorway. He bent over, began to retch. Lotaern snatched the lantern from him, then stepped up behind Eraeth, raising the light high, his face a stoic mask, devoid of emotion. Colin and Aeren moved in behind him.
The room contained a rough cot, a single stool, and a small table with a few sheets of parchment, a tome, and a bottle of ink. A feather quill lay broken to one side. The tome and parchment and most of the table were coated with what looked like spilled ink.
Except it wasn’t ink. It was blood.
It saturated the blanket on the cot, dripped from its edge onto the floor, had formed a pool that continued to spread along the stones. Splatters of it streaked the walls in grisly patterns. Colin had never seen so much blood, and he felt his stomach clenching at the shock of it, at its dark, viscous color, its stench, the taste of it on the air.
Then Eraeth took a step into the room, and Colin saw what had caught his attention.
Benedine’s body lay in the center of the room, mostly obscured from view by the table and stool. But what he could see of the body made Colin’s stomach turn again. He tasted bile, acidic and thick, and he swallowed, hard, trembling as it burned his throat. The acolyte’s body had been slashed open with too many cuts to count, so many his clothes were nothing but tatters, the skin beneath not much different. He lay facedown, his back lacerated, the backs of his legs, his calves, shredded. His throat had been slit, his head to one side, his eyes wide, mouth open. Blood streaked the pale contours of his face, had matted in his hair and pooled in the hollow of his back. The stone beneath him had been stained black with it.
“How did this happen?” Lotaern muttered. Then he turned on Karvel and roared, “Find Tallin, or any member of the Flame. Now!”
Karvel, face still pasty white, staggered to his feet and rushed off, even though Loatern had spoken in Andovan. Lotaern turned back to the room, where Eraeth had knelt down next to the body. He touched the pool of blood, rubbed it between his fingers with a grimace, then stood.
“The blood hasn’t had time to congeal yet. This happened recently.”
“Who did this?” Lotaern growled.
Colin suddenly remembered the look on Khalaek’s aide’s face in the courtyard as he watched Benedine leave: cold and heartless.
“Khalaek,” Aeren said. “He must not need Benedine’s help any longer.”
“Impossible. How did he gain access to the Sanctuary? I have acolytes guarding all of the entrances!”
Two acolytes dressed in the same robes as the others, but with a white patch of flames in the centers of their chests, charged down the corridor, faces tense. Colin was surprised to see they carried swords and saw Aeren and Eraeth trade a shocked look as well. These men did not act like acolytes. Their actions were tight, controlled, and dangerous, as if they were members of the Phalanx.
Lotaern stepped away from the room and met them. A heated discussion in Alvritshai ensued, one of the acolytes stepping into Benedine’s room, inspecting the body, then returning, his face grim. When Lotaern finally turned back to them, he didn’t look any happier. “They say Benedine worked in the archives all morning and retired to his rooms less than an hour ago. I don’t understand. Who could have entered the Sanctuary, killed Benedine, and left, without being noticed?”
Colin thought of the taste of leaves and earth. “Maybe it wasn’t a person,” he said softly.
Lotaern, Aeren, and Eraeth stilled.
“What do you mean?” Eraeth asked.
“The Wraiths,” Aeren answered.
“Here? In Caercaern?” Lotaern spat, his eyes darkening. “In the Sanctuary?”
Colin heard the doubt in his voice, saw it in Aeren and Eraeth’s eyes as well. He drew a steadying breath, regretted it as another wave of nausea swept through him at the smell of the blood, then said, “I can find out.”
All three Alvritshai stilled. Even the two members of the Flame, the acolytes who were not acolytes, traded a glance and shifted uncomfortably at the sudden stillness.
“How?” Lotaern asked.
Colin glanced toward Aeren, who merely nodded. “I can travel back to the moment he was killed. I can see who killed him.”
Lotaern’s eyes widened, flickered toward Aeren a moment, then back. “Then do it.”
Colin closed his eyes and drew into himself, straightened… and then pushed. Time slowed, and he approached the barrier that separated the present from the past. Gathering himself, he shoved through it, his skin tingling as it ruptured around him, and then he waded backward into the past. The acolyte guards retreated, and as Lotaern and Eraeth stepped away from the doorway, Colin slid inside, stepping around the body, even as Lotaern shut the door, closing Colin in with Benedine’s body. He tried not to shudder as he moved to the far side of the room, and then he pushed again. Hard.
And sank back into time too fast. The room blurred, a smear of sudden, violent movement that made him queasy. When he finally stabilized it, he found Benedine sitting at his desk, quill in hand, as he worked on the tome before him.
He kept time stationary for a moment, to catch his equilibrium, then moved around to see what Benedine was working on. The tome was yellow with age, the pages stiff, the text written in a tight scrawl with long, nearly vertical letters, interspersed with amazingly detailed pictures. Benedine had copied a few phrases from the book onto his sheet of parchment and was turning the page, his brow creased in concentration.
Unable to read the Alvritshai words, Colin allowed time to resume and stepped back.
Benedine flipped the page and sighed heavily before leaning forward to read. One hand rose to knead his forehead.
Colin smelled the Wraith before he saw it, the same scent he’d caught while they’d been speaking in Lotaern’s rooms-leaves and earth: the Lifeblood.
A moment later, the door to Benedine’s room opened.
Colin caught a flicker of darkness, of shadow, but nothing more. He doubted Benedine had seen even that. Even as the acolyte spun, the door closed, with another smear of shadow.
Face pinched in confusion, Benedine began to rise. He’d only made it halfway up when the Wraith appeared at his side, completely visible for half a breath. No longer draped in the cloak of the Shadows, he wore a dark gray shirt and muddied breeches, a cloak with a hood pulled up over his head, obscuring his face, and boots. He carried a dagger. And he was human.
In that single half-breath, the Wraith slashed along Benedine’s arm, then vanished. Benedine cried out, stumbled forward over his desk, the quill snapping in his hand as he tried to catch himself, the stool he’d been sitting on rattling to the floor behind him. The Wraith flickered into view on his other side, slashed at him again, this time across the face, blood flying in a smooth arc to splatter agains the wall. Gasping, Benedine shoved away from the desk, half turned, but the Wraith was there, cutting into his arm, vanishing, reappearing two steps away to cut again. Benedine cried out at every cut, spinning around, bewildered, unable to follow the flickering movements of the Wraith. Blood flew in every direction, the cuts getting deeper and deeper. Benedine tried to make it to the door with a strangled scream, but the Wraith slashed the back of his calf, and he stumbled to his hands and knees. Slices appeared all along his back, his sides, the Wraith no more than a blur, and as Benedine arched back, arms raised to ward off his tormentor, the Wraith appeared behind him.
Colin stepped forward, even though he knew he couldn’t change anything, knew he couldn’t stop it.
Gripping the acolyte’s head, yanking it backward, the Wraith cut Benedine’s throat. Blood fountained down over the acolyte’s shredded robes, drenching the bed, splattering onto the floor. Even as Colin gagged, the stench overpowering, the Wraith thrust Benedine’s body forward and stepped toward the door. Colin’s knees grew weak, the shock of the violence-all happening in the space of a dozen heartbeats-hitting him hard. He lost his hold on time, felt it shove him forward, the aftermath of the attack as the Wraith departed a smear of action, and then he fell to his hands and knees and vomited onto the acolyte’s stone floor.
He heard Lotaern gasp, heard the acolyte guardsmen cry out, and then Aeren said, “In here!”
They crowded the doorway to Benedine’s chambers, all staring at Colin in shock. All except Aeren and Eraeth.
“Well?” Eraeth asked.
Colin spat out the sour taste in his mouth, swallowed, then pulled himself upright. One hand had landed in Benedine’s blood, and with a grimace he wiped it off on a clean edge of Benedine’s blanket. “It was a Wraith,” he said. “I couldn’t see his face, but he moved like I do. And he reeked of the Lifeblood.”
“Could you identify the Wraith?” Lotaern asked. “Was it one of Khalaek’s men?”
“No. He wore a hood and kept his face concealed. But he wasn’t one of Khalaek’s men. He was human.”
Lotaern swore, glanced toward the carnage in Benedine’s room, then asked, “What should we do?”
Aeren frowned. “We need to find out what Benedine found in the Scripts regarding the sarenavriell, what it was that Khalaek wanted. Without Benedine, we have no way to connect the Wraiths to Khalaek. We have nothing.”
Lotaern turned to Colin. “Can you go back to see what he was researching?”
Colin shook his head, one hand falling to his stomach and the vague heat and pain there. He still trembled, shaken by the Wraith’s cruelty. Like that of the Shadows. “Not right now. I’m still too weak. Unless…” He trailed off, catching Eraeth’s eye. He could smell the vial of Lifeblood on the Protector. If he drank that…
“No,” Eraeth said, frowning. When Colin began to protest, his eyes hardened and he repeated more forcefully, “No.”
“And we’re leaving with the Tamaell tomorrow,” Aeren said. “We’ll have to discover what Benedine found another way.”
Colin turned to Lotaern. “He was reading that book when he died.”
Lotaern moved to the desk. The parchment Benedine had been writing on was destroyed, soaked in blood, but the Chosen gingerly lifted the edge of the book to look at the cover, then set it back down. “This wasn’t part of his research. This was for daily study as an acolyte. It tells us nothing. Which means we still don’t know what Khalaek intends.”
Aeren regarded Lotaern for a long moment, then turned away, motioning Eraeth and Colin to follow. “Find what Benedine found,” he said.
“And where are you going?”
“To finish preparations for the meeting with the dwarren.”
Garius reached down and tugged on one of the gaezel’s horns, and the animal snorted and angled slightly right, thundering through the grasses of the plains, reaching a slight rise and charging down into the dip beyond. Hot wind blasted his face, catching his beard as he leaned forward into it. He could hear the beads tied into his braids clicking together, beads that signified all his accomplishments throughout life: his marriage, the births of his sons and daughters, his feats in battle. Behind, the thunder of the hundred other Thousand Springs Riders, including Shea, was a distant rumble. They’d been riding hard for two days. They were almost at the designated meeting place for the Gathering: the warren of the Shadow Moon Clan.
He’d returned to his own city immediately after the meeting with the Alvritshai and had barely spent an hour seeing to the needs of his wife, Tamannen, and of his sons and daughters and extended family. Shea watched and scowled the entire time as he explained what had happened and what needed to be done. Then he’d donned the mantle of clan chief and, with Shea and the rest of the Riders as escort, descended from the height of the cleft to the central chamber of the warren. There, beside the central pool and the cascade of the river, he’d ordered the great drum brought forth and a signal sent through the tunnels to the other dwarren cities and their clan chiefs.
The Riders he’d selected for the journey mounted even as the first hollow boom of the great drum echoed through the city’s cavern, its voice deep and hollow, vibrating in Garius’ bones. Aimed at the wide mouth of the largest tunnel leading out of the city, its slow rhythm called a Gathering of the clans a ten-day hence at the Shadow Moon Clan’s city, a message that would be heard and relayed by drum throughout the warrens. Shadow Moon wasn’t the most central of the clans on the plains, but it was close enough to the designated meeting place with the Alvritshai to give the clan chiefs time to gather, discuss the situation, chose a Cochen-a Gathering leader-and then arrive on time if it was decided to meet with the Alvritshai.
Assuming all the clan chiefs heard the drum message in time.
Ahead, Garius caught sight of the outermost scouts of Shadow Moon. One of them stood and signaled that they’d been recognized and could proceed without stopping. Garius thundered past them, and minutes later the outer tent city rose into view.
Swirls of cloth wrapped around poles and stakes emerged from the plains in a confusion of colors and shapes. Some pierced straight up to the sky, those nearest the gaping hole of the entrance to the warren the highest. Others jutted out to the sides at odd angles, the fabric stretched taut here, falling in soft folds there, the entire array of cloth and pole and ties giving the sense of movement, the blues and greens blending together to give the impression of water, flowing free aboveground, without constraints, without boundaries. A river without banks, dwarren walking free among its eddies and currents. The tents filled the entire length of the shallow valley.
Garius headed his group toward the center of the vortex of cloth along the main approach to the warren, dwarren carrying trade goods and leading wagons and pack gaezels scrambling to get out of the way. Once, only the Riders would have appeared aboveground near the main entrance to the warren, to protect the most exposed portal to the underground tunnels beneath. The women and those protecting them and the clan’s shamans would ascend through the network of much smaller hidden entrances near the communal fields scattered throughout the plains.
But the introduction of the Alvritshai and then the humans onto the plains had changed everything. The dwarren had been forced to live aboveground more and more, the threat from both foreign races too great. It became inefficient to keep supplies and resources below, and once the Riders shifted to the surface, so did the women and the trade. Within a decade, the tent cities gained limited permanence, and from there they only grew.
Garius ignored the tents and the people and angled his gaezel toward the dark depths of the entrance instead. The well-trampled ramp sloped downward, and he ducked his head as he passed through into the shade beneath. Riders lined both sides within, most standing near a double line of giant pillars embedded in the walls on either side, supporting arches overhead embellished with ancient stonework. The stone between the successive arches was rough and unworked, rigged to collapse and seal the warren if the dwarren destroyed the pillars. But this defense passed by in the space of a heartbeat, Garius not slowing his descent into the massive tunnel. The sound of Shea and the rest of his Riders increased behind him and echoed out ahead. Tunnels branched off to either side, much smaller in diameter, intersections lit with metal-worked stands containing wide flat bowls of burning oil. The walls were lined with stone, buttressed with supports at regular intervals, the stone shifting in color until it had run the entire spectrum found on the plains, including the vivid reds from the desert near the Painted Sands Clan to the east. As above, fellow Riders and dwarren transporting goods dodged out of their way as the roar of Garius’ gaezel reached them.
Then the worked stone ended, the walls and floor abruptly white and smooth, no supports visible. This was the stone of the Ancients, the ones who came before, the ones who gave the Lands to the People, to guard and protect. The rounded edges of the tunnel above became sharp rectangular angles, although the tunnels were still lit with the basins of oil.
When the stands of flame began appearing closer together, Garius pulled back on the gaezel’s horns and slowed.
Moments later, the Ancients’ tunnel ended, opening up into the true city of Shadow Moon, a rounded room that could enclose the entire tent city above. Like that of Thousand Springs, the wide floor swept away to a massive pool, the river cascading down from the circular opening high above, wider than the tunnel they’d just left, frothing in the pool before spilling over its edge into another channel and funneling down into a second circular tunnel. The open holes of the dwarren’s clefts surrounded the walls on all sides, some lit from within by lantern light, but more than half of them dark and empty when once they were crowded, teeming with families. Dwarren scrambled from level to level in the lowest tiers, using stairs cut into the stone walls, but most of the dwarren were on the floor, the wide plaza choked with blankets spread with wares as women bartered for goods and children dodged and cavorted around them, laughing and screaming as they played. Garius saw earthen bowls painted with geometric designs, woven blankets with depictions of Ilacqua and the Four Winds, spears and bows, fabric, produce, and butchered animals, all offered up for the women’s examination. The chamber echoed with a dull throb from the rushing water and the noise of the marketplace, dampened by the immensity of the cavern.
Garius’ attention was caught by the waiting Riders at the far side of the thoroughfare ending near the great pool. Mannet, clan chief of Shadow Moon, stood with three other clan chiefs, including Harticur from the Red Sea Clan-the most powerful clan at the moment-each with his own shaman and at least four of his own Riders. It appeared that the clan chief from Painted Sands, Adammern, had arrived shortly before Garius. His mounts had been herded to one side. Only two clans were not present: Broken Waters and Claw Lake.
Garius frowned as he led his group toward the others. Broken Waters was the clan farthest from Shadow Moon, so it wasn’t unexpected they had not yet arrived, but Claw Lake lay adjacent to Shadow Moon. Its clan should have been one of the first to arrive.
Pulling his gaezel to a halt, Garius dismounted, heard the rest of his group doing the same behind him. Smoothing the tangles of his beard, he stepped toward the other clan chiefs and felt his son and Oudan, his shaman, falling into step behind him.
Mannet broke off his conversation with the others as Garius approached. “Garius, Chief of the Thousand Springs Clan, the People of Shadow Moon welcome you.”
Garius nodded in return. “May Ilacqua blaze down upon you and the Four Winds keep your granaries full.”
Mannet grunted. “And yours.” Pleasantries complete, his face darkened. “Why have you called a Gathering? We are nearing the end of harvest and must prepare for the Tesinthe and the blessing of the Lands for renewal.”
Behind him, the chiefs from Silver Grass and Painted Sands grumbled in agreement. Sipa stood as far from Mannet as possible and shot the clan chief a hostile glare. Their clans had warred for generations across the boundary of the Tiquano River. Both Harticur and Adammern were separated for a similar reason. Garius could feel the tension on the air, although all the clan chiefs were respecting the sanctity of the Gathering.
He suddenly realized that getting them to agree to meet with the Alvritshai and to choose one of their group to be the Cochen might be harder than he’d thought. He needed to make them understand the seriousness of the request for this Gathering, serious enough that they needed to set aside their conflicts.
Running his fingers through the beads in his beard, he drew himself upright and in a deep voice said, “This discussion requires the use of the keeva, and the presence of our shamans.”
Mannet’s eyes widened, and a growling murmur rumbled through the rest of the group. Use of the keeva and the presence of the shamans meant the words would be heard directly by the gods, the actions of the clan chiefs judged by them. It was used only for the most powerful ceremonies and rites or to commune with the gods before the clan chief made crucial decisions.
“Hochen!” Mannet barked, and his shaman-older than Oudan by at least ten years-shuffled forward, the plains snake tails on his spear rattling as he moved. He glared at Garius with a flattened, wrinkled face. “Prepare the keeva.”
Hochen smacked his lips together, mumbled something incomprehensible, then began shuffling off toward the wide doorway of the ritual chamber at the base of the tiered clefts near the cascade. Oudan and the rest of the shamans moved to help, some already beginning the blessing and the litany that would seal the oval chamber from evil spirits and prying ears and open it up to the gods.
“I’ve left a small group of acolytes behind in the archives attempting to reconstruct the research that Benedine has been doing for the past few months, but it will be difficult.”
Aeren paused in the act of slicing a piece of gaezel meat and stared at Lotaern, who sat across from him at the low, portable table set up on the grass of the plains. They’d traveled with the Alvritshai envoy the full length of Lord Peloroun’s lands and were about to enter the land that the dwarren claimed as their own. Aeren hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to Lotaern since they’d departed Caercaern, the Chosen of the Order having first dined with nearly all of the other lords who outranked Aeren, starting with the Tamaell. Aeren could have insisted, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to how closely he’d been working with Lotaern recently.
Setting his knife aside, Aeren dipped his hands into a tiny bowl of water and dried them on a towel set to one side. “Why is that?”
“Because following Benedine’s logic-what thought led to which reference, what material he looked at first-is nearly impossible. He looked at hundreds of texts, including the Scripts, but most of those lead to dead ends. We don’t know which of those texts were important, and finding them will take time.”
Aeren nodded. “I see.”
Lotaern gave him a strange look. “You’ve been rather quiet. What is it that concerns you?”
Aeren caught Lotaern’s eye and thought back to the day the envoy had departed Caercaern. All the lords had gathered in the plaza before the Sanctuary before dociern, as the Tamaell had requested. Only the Chosen and his acolytes had yet to arrive. When the bells of the Sanctuary began to chime, everyone on the plaza turned toward the doors to the Sanctuary, which had already begun to open. But unlike a typical dociern ceremony, the acolytes who emerged didn’t begin drifting among those gathered to offer up blessings and prayers or give alms and accept donations. Instead, the Chosen of the Order stepped out into the sunlight in robes of vivid white. Four files of acolytes marched out behind him, dressed in light armor, every footfall in sync, moving in precise columns that lined up behind Lotaern in formation. Two of the acolyte warriors carried tall banners, a white flame against a blue background, signifying Aielan’s Light. They fell into place on either side of Lotaern. Behind the Chosen, more acolytes emerged, this time leading a slew of horses and two wagons. One of them led a white horse to Lotaern’s side and handed over the reins.
The spectacle had drawn a murmur from the gathered Alvritshai, from the lords and the Phalanx. Aeren hadn’t realized the Order had their own warriors. The Order shouldn’t have warriors. Were they simply for show? Or could they actually wield the cattans they carried?
Aeren drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I did not realize that the Order had trained warriors. It didn’t when I was an acolyte.”
Lotaern stilled for a moment, then set his own knife down and finished chewing before answering. “There is nothing in the Scripts that forbids it. In fact, there are references to the Order having its own army, the Order of the Flame, brethren who felt that Aielan and her Light must be defended at all costs.”
“And is that what these acolytes-this Order of the Flame-are for? Defense?”
“Yes. For the defense of Aielan and the Order, to help protect us against those who would oppose the Light. And against those creatures like the sukrael and the Wraiths who abhor the Light, who may seek to destroy it.”
Aeren met Lotaern’s gaze. “You must have begun training the members of the Order of the Flame years ago to have them prepared at the level I have seen on this march. Training that began long before the sukrael or the Wraiths were an issue.”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I would have thought that you, of all of the lords in the Evant, would be supportive of the Order and the Flame.”
“I do support the Order,” Aeren said, “but I am also Lord of House Rhyssal. The Order was never intended to have its own Phalanx. It’s how the balance of power between the Evant and the Order remains stable. It’s how the Tamaell retains his power and keeps the Order separate from the Evant. The Order was never intended to be a rival to the Evant, the Chosen a rival to the Tamaell. It is intended to serve the people, to offer them solace and guidance in their everyday lives and to give them hope in times of strife. I cannot be the only lord in this envoy who has expressed concern over this.”
“No, you are not. But I believe that you will find the Flame useful before all this is done. They are skilled at more than swordplay. They have other talents. And I do not intend to oppose the Tamaell or use the Flame against any of the Houses. But the world is changing. The arrival of the humans was only the beginning. Now we have the sukrael, the antruel, the Wraiths… I do not see an end to the changes in sight. The Order is simply preparing.”
Aeren didn’t answer, the tension between them thick. He knew that some within the Order had power like that which Colin displayed, although not as great. He wanted to ask how Lotaern had trained his contingent of warrior acolytes without anyone in the Evant learning of it, but he already knew. He’d been in the depths of the Sanctuary himself when he’d gone to pass through Aielan’s Light to earn his pendant. He’d seen the empty chambers deep within the mountain where the Alvritshai had once lived. Lotaern could have trained an army ten times this size within those halls, and no one outside the Order would have known.
The thought sent fingers of unease prickling along his arms.
But Lotaern’s small force-a hundred and twenty acolytes altogether-was the least of Aeren’s concerns at the moment, and it was not the main source of the tension and unease that had preoccupied him since they’d reached the edge of Alvritshai lands.
Aeren glanced out toward the falling darkness and the rest of the entourage heading to the plains. Nearby, Eraeth and Colin sat beside one of the many fires lit for cooking and for the coming night, Eraeth drilling Colin in the Alvritshai language, using the light to show him the corresponding words on scraps of parchment. A few of the Rhyssal Phalanx had gathered around to watch and were tossing in their own contributions. Ever since the trek across the plains and the meeting with the dwarren, the Phalanx had taken Colin under the Rhyssal wings, more than even declaring him Rhyssal-aein warranted. They’d begun training him with the knife he carried in his bag, spending hours after the convoy halted, sparring until the light faded. Beyond them, the convoy stretched out into the distance along a swath of trampled and wheel-rutted grass, so large he could barely discern Tamaell Fedorem’s banners at the head of the column. They were arranged according to their power in the Evant, the Tamaell at the front, followed by Lords Khalaek and Peloroun, Waerren and Jydell, Vaersoom and Aeren, and finally Barak.
The size of the group had grown since they’d departed Caercaern.
“I find it troublesome that Lord Peloroun added over one hundred of his own House Phalanx to his escort when we reached his estate,” he finally said. “I could have let that pass without comment, could have accepted it as a mere precaution on his part. He has dealt with the dwarren on more occasions than nearly any of the rest of the lords. And as he said at the Evant, he has suffered more of their attacks. But then, at the border-”
Lotaern shifted at the change in conversation, then nodded in understanding. “At the border, we were joined by no less than one thousand of the Phalanx, composed of members of the Houses Duvoraen, Ionaen, and Redlien.”
“Precisely.” Aeren turned to gaze out over the hundreds of fires that now lit the night. “What began as a simple envoy has begun to feel more like an army. An army marching to war.” He paused, then turned to face Lotaern directly. “There are now nearly two thousand Phalanx in this envoy, five hundred of them the White Phalanx. When we left Caercaern, the entire envoy contained only four hundred. It’s begun to feel like a repetition of the Escarpment.”
Lotaern caught the undercurrent in Aeren’s tone and poured a glass of wine, forehead creased in thought. “You think this is a ploy, a means to get all the dwarren clan chiefs together in one place so that we can finish them off in one crushing defeat. You think Tamaell Fedorem intends another betrayal.”
“That’s exactly what I fear.” The words were more bitter than he’d intended, loud enough that Eraeth glanced over with a frown. “But I can’t tell. He had me convinced he intended peace with the humans at the Escarpment. Why shouldn’t he do the same again?”
“He doesn’t have the army gathered here that he had at the Escarpment.”
“Near enough. But he doesn’t need such a large army now. We’re only meeting with the dwarren. They aren’t expecting a battle, certainly not a battle of the extent we saw at the Escarpment, with all three races present.”
“True.” Lotaern traced the edge of his glass with one finger, brow creased with concern. “Whether or not we have enough of a force to handle the dwarren depends on how many of the dwarren are present at the meeting.” He glanced up at Aeren. “Do you know how many dwarren will be there?”
“At least as many as there are Alvritshai in this current… convoy. The clan chief I spoke to intended to bring all the dwarren clans together for the meeting. There are seven. If each chief brings his own force and escort-and knowing the dwarren, each chief will attempt to bring an escort larger than any of the other chiefs-it’s likely there will be more dwarren at the meeting than we have Alvritshai at the moment.”
Lotaern shifted. “You know that the Tamaell and I have not gotten along well together, even before the Escarpment, but we have always treated each other with the respect that our positions deserve. I did not sense any deceit in him during our own meal at the beginning of this journey. Perhaps there is nothing to worry about.”
Aeren grunted. “I had no worries at the Escarpment. Forgive me if I find it difficult to set aside my worries now.”
Lotaern didn’t respond, and they sat in silence for a long moment, the occasional exasperated sigh audible from Eraeth as Colin mispronounced a word or phrase. Aeren smiled when Colin bit back, Eraeth stiffening, both refusing to give ground.
“He is an interesting human,” Lotaern murmured.
“Is he?” Aeren kept his eyes on Colin. He remembered following the humans’ wagons as they made their slow trek east, remembered the first meeting at the small creek, where he’d exchanged the ceremonial offerings to Aielan with Colin and his father and the others. But it had always been Colin that intrigued him. “Eraeth tried to warn me away, but there was something about the human boy that drew me.”
Lotaern’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps it was Aielan’s will that guided you.”
Aeren reached down to touch the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. “Perhaps. It’s certainly been fortuitous. For all of us. We wouldn’t be aware of the Wells and the Wraiths otherwise.”
Lotaern stirred. “About the Wraiths…”
Aeren turned from watching Colin and Eraeth. “What?”
“We need to know where the Wells are located, and I’m not certain that those I left behind will find their locations in the Scripts in time, even knowing where Benedine has already looked. This boy speaks to the Faelehgre who guard the sarenavriell. He may be able to learn something more from them.”
Aeren turned to face the Chosen, saw Lotaern recoil slightly from the look on his face. “When Colin returned from speaking to the Faelehgre the first time, the black mark on his arm had grown. Somehow, the sarenavriell hurts him. I’ve seen the haunted look in his eyes, the tension in his body when he speaks of it. And yet, as soon as the convoy reached the plains, he offered to go back, offered to see if the Faelehgre have found out anything more. He’s already been to the forest and back once, and the Faelehgre have learned nothing new, except that the Shadows continue to hunt on their new hunting grounds and that the new Well continues to fill. They have not seen the Wraiths at all.
“I will not ask him to return again. He may return on his own, and he will inform us if there is news, but I refuse to allow him to hurt himself at my request.”
Moiran sat astride her horse, back stiff, as the army of Alvritshai lords and their entourages made their slow but steady crawl across the plains. Her position was near the front of the column, before the Tamaell’s wagons but not part of the Tamaell’s lead group.
Her eyes drifted toward Fedorem, where he rode his own steed at the front, surrounded by four Lords of the Evant, a covey of attendants, pages, messengers, and a slew of House banners, all vying for height and the wind that gusted across the plains.
Games! She thought, her mouth twisting in distaste. Games played by men with more ambition than common sense.
She nearly grunted, her disgust with the lords and their manipulations rising. But then a group of the lords shifted their horses, and she caught sight of Thaedoren.
The tightness in her shoulders relaxed, and she released her pent up breath in a long sigh.
Thaedoren’s arrival in Caercaern had shocked her. Fedorem had not told her he’d sent for their firstborn son, had not sought her counsel since that night in Caercaern, when she’d confronted him over the Escarpment and Lord Khalaek. So when she’d come in from tending her gardens and found Thaedoren speaking stiffly with Fedorem, dressed in his Phalanx colors… Only when she’d felt the tension in the room, seen the hardness on Thaedoren’s face, the way he’d clenched his jaw, had the shock dissipated.
She’d dropped her pruning shears and gloves and embraced him. Thaedoren had stiffened in her embrace at first, his breath tight and controlled, but then he’d relaxed, pushing her back gently, allowing her to gather herself together, to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“I’ve had Thaedoren transferred back to Caercaern,” Fedorem had said from behind her, and she’d heard the disapproval in his voice over her display of emotion. “This meeting of the Evant is too important for him to miss.”
She could sense Thaedoren’s confusion. What had been merely a strained relationship between father and son, due to disagreements on how to control the Evant, had degenerated into public vocal arguments after the Escarpment. Thaedoren had always been more forthright than his father. And more honorable. He’d viewed the betrayal of the human King as a stain upon the Resue House, upon the Alvritshai in general. Fedorem had ordered him to the border with the Phalanx. Thaedoren had been more than willing to leave and had taken his brother, Daedelan, with him.
It was one of the issues that had driven a wedge between Moiran and Fedorem in those years following his return from the battle. His actions within the Evant, with Khalaek, had done the rest.
“It’s good to have you back,” she’d said, her voice calm, with no trace of the roil of emotion-elation, hope, and fear-she felt inside. Why had he recalled Thaedoren? Why now? Fedorem must have a reason. He did nothing without purpose.
She still had no answers when, a day later, Fedorem had requested her presence at the Evant. The request had prompted more questions, and now, a week onto the plains, with two days lost to one of the violent, unnatural storms slowing their progress, she still had no answers. Fedorem remained stubbornly silent, barely speaking to her when the army halted for the night. He spoke to Thaedoren, the two retreating to Fedorem’s tents.
The sudden change… troubled her. His actions were too close to those he’d taken before the Escarpment.
Moiran shifted in her saddle. Her horse snorted, picking up on her unease, and she quieted it by stroking its neck. To the side, one of her attendants looked at her with a questioning frown, but she shook her head, her brow creasing in irritation.
Ahead, one of the attendants surrounding Fedorem suddenly cried out in warning. Instantly, Fedorem was surrounded by the White Phalanx. The lords leaped into defensive positions, all of them facing west. The Phalanx set to guard Moiran reacted as well, closing up around her and her attendant, a few more taking charge of the wagon behind her.
Moiran ignored them and rose slightly in her saddle as the column ground to a halt, commands and warnings shouted down the line. She raised one hand to shade her eyes, shivering as the chill wind snuck down through the nape of her shirt.
“What is it?” her attendant asked, bringing her mount up close to Moiran’s. Her tone was breathless with fear, yet tinged with excitement.
“I can’t see-” Moiran cut off as someone on horseback charged up over a distant ridge. They were moving fast, and as they drew near, Moiran could see the lather on the horse’s sides. “It’s a rider, coming in fast.”
A horn blew from Fedorem’s position, and everyone relaxed, Moiran’s attendant heaving a sigh of relief.
“It’s one of our scouts,” the closest Phalanx muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”
“He wouldn’t have pushed his horse so hard if there were nothing to worry about,” Moiran said without turning.
The guardsman and her attendant frowned at each other.
The scout pulled up sharply in front of the lords and their forest of banners, then literally fell from his horse. A few of those nearest cried out. Lord Aeren and Lord Jydell dismounted and rushed to the scout’s side, helping him to rise. As they did so, the horse the scout had ridden heaved a shuddering sigh and collapsed to its knees, its tongue protruding from its mouth. Someone rushed toward it with a pail of water, but before it could drink, it leaned drunkenly to one side and fell.
Moiran’s attendant gasped again and whispered, “What happened?”
Moiran looked at her. “He rode the horse to death.” She couldn’t keep the condescension from her voice, and the girl winced.
More men rushed to the horse, but Moiran kept her eyes on the scout. With Lord Aeren’s help, Jydell trailing behind, he staggered toward where Moiran could see Fedorem through the crowd of bodies. She swore as she lost sight of the scout and Fedorem altogether.
She glanced at the Phalanx guard, considered ordering him to go find out what had happened, then shrugged the thought aside with disgust. He wouldn’t leave his post, not even at an order from the Tamaea.
The group surrounding Fedorem suddenly grew agitated, and she heard the Tamaell bellow, “Quiet!” The voices fell into low murmurs, but they still shifted back and forth.
The strain in the air was palpable, and Moiran edged her horse farther forward, trying to hear something-anything-to catch a glimpse of the scout, of Fedorem, of Her Phalanx bodyguard sidled his mount in front of her, cutting her off. She gave him a dark look and drew breath to berate him, but he said coldly, “Whatever it is, it’s obviously the business of the Evant, not the Tamaea.”
She could have insisted that it didn’t matter, that Fedorem would tell her, or Thaedoren, or that her role as head of the Ilvaeran and the steward of the House gave her the right to know, but she choked the words back. Because they would have been a lie. The Ilvaeran-commonly called the Lady’s Evant-might control the economic resources of each of the Houses, but it had little to do with the current meeting with the dwarren. And before the Escarpment, Fedorem had told her everything, or nearly everything. But since then…
Fedorem emerged from the tangle of lords and attendants on foot and bellowed, “We’ll halt here for the night.”
Murmurs rose from those nearest as the orders were passed down the line, both by word of mouth and by horn. Servants burst into sudden activity, wagons directed to either side of the path they’d made through the grasslands, spreading out, cooks hauling food and wares from trunks and compartments, others scattering to the nearest visible copses of the trees in search of firewood to supplement what they’d brought with them, the Phalanx themselves settling shifts for sentries, assigned scouts darting away onto the plains. Moiran normally would have watched the setting up of camp intently, since her duties as lady of the House and as head of the Ilvaeran included making certain the convoy had supplies, but instead she observed Fedorem. The Tamaell watched his men intently, Thaedoren emerging from the group with the weary scout in tow as the lords scattered, most with pensive expressions or deep frowns on their faces. As soon as Thaedoren appeared, Moiran nudged her horse around her bodyguard and approached Fedorem, ignoring the Phalanx’s protests.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Fedorem’s face set, his jaw clenched, chin lifted slightly as he turned away.
Moiran felt herself stiffen, her hands clutching the reins tighter. “Why are we stopping? What news did the scout bring?” Then, in a softer, more dangerous voice: “Don’t tell me it isn’t important. He wouldn’t have ridden his horse to death if it weren’t.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thaedoren cast his father a questioning look. “Father?”
Without turning, Fedorem said harshly, “No. We haven’t discussed it yet.” Then he turned to face Moiran, stance stern and solid, like stone. But Moiran saw the touch of worry in his eyes, a hint of fear. “Thaedoren and I will be in the council’s tent. We’ll be eating there as well, will likely remain there most of the night.”
Then he spun and motioned to Thaedoren and the scout, heading toward where the tent was even now being erected.
Moiran gripped her reins even harder. She forced herself to calm, suppressed a scream of frustration, then turned and spat, “Games!” under her breath.
“My Tamaea?” her attendant asked timidly.
Moiran hadn’t even realized the girl had followed her. She couldn’t even remember her name… Fae? Faeren?
But a thought suddenly struck her, and her shoulders relaxed, a slight smile touching her lips. Easing her horse forward, toward her own tents, she motioned the attendant closer. “I have something I need you to attend to,” she said.
“Yes, Tamaea.”
Moiran felt the guardsman fall into position behind her, just out of earshot, and her smile widened.
Aeren halted at the edge of the Tamaea’s-and the Tamaell’s-range of tents and frowned into the darkness. The late afternoon and evening had been a flurry of activity as the convoy settled in after the arrival of the scout and the unexpected halt. Messengers had run between all of the lords’ encampments. Aeren himself had sent some of those messages in an attempt to gather as much information as possible. But he’d learned only what the other lords knew, which was nothing more than what he’d overheard the scout reveal after his arrival, before Fedorem had cut the scout’s report short and called the halt.
And then Faeren had arrived and delivered her message:
Tamaea Moiran Resue requests the presence of Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal, to dine in the Tamaea’s tents in the absence of the Tamaell Fedorem Resue.
Without moving, he scanned the fires scattered throughout the Tamaell’s enclave, his gaze lingering on those near the council tent. He could see light flickering inside, but he could not see any shapes or figures moving about.
Aeren’s gaze drifted to the Tamaea’s tent, and his frown deepened. “What do you want, Tamaea?” he whispered to himself.
In the distance, someone laughed, the sound jarring in the openness of the plains, the stillness of the night. Aeren breathed in the chill air, tasted winter on it, then stared up briefly at the brittle stars overhead, the sliver of moon.
He stepped across the imaginary boundary between the rest of the camp and the Tamaell’s domain and moved swiftly toward the Tamaea’s tents. One of the Phalanx stiffened as he approached, then recognized him and let him pass without a word.
The two Phalanx outside the tent did not.
“The Tamaea requested my presence for dinner tonight,” he said.
The taller of the two nodded. “I’ll inform the Tamaea you have arrived.”
As he waited, Aeren realized he could see his breath on the air, a faint plume, visible only because of the nearness of a fire. He shivered.
The Phalanx guard returned. “You may enter. The food has already been served.”
Aeren nodded, then ducked down through the entrance of the tent.
He smelled spices a moment before slipping through a second opening deeper inside the tent-sage and parsley, nearly smothered by the scent of spiced venison. When he stood, the apprehension he’d felt in coming here surged.
The Tamaea sat before a single small table with two settings, bowls of food of various sizes spread out on either side, steam rising from most. Another low table sat to one side, a decanter of wine and two glasses already set out, along with a tray of cheese and grapes. The floor was littered with pillows, a large pillow serving as a seat. Lanterns lit the room, the flames creating a soft light.
“Welcome, Lord Aeren,” the Tamaea said, her mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Please join me.”
Suddenly wary, Aeren moved to the pillow opposite the Tamaea, settling himself slowly, legs crossed. “I did not realize this was a. .. private dinner,” he said.
The Tamaea reached for the wine, pouring two glasses as she said, “As private as the Tamaea can make it.” She passed Aeren’s glass to him and raised hers, one eyebrow tilted upward, “To… alliances.”
Aeren stilled, eyes narrowing, then raised his own glass. “To peaceful alliances.”
The Tamaea nodded, then sipped her wine before setting it aside and turning to the food, taking a small portion from each bowl before passing them to Aeren. Her motions were smooth and practiced, even though a servant typically served at dinner.
She spoke as she worked.
“It’s been an interesting few weeks. Your arrival and the news you brought, the meeting of the Evant and the assembly of the army-”
“Envoy,” Aeren interrupted, without thinking.
The Tamaea froze, a skewer of meat half-raised toward her plate, her eyes on him. They held steady for a moment, then dropped as she set the skewer down slowly and handed him the bowl. “I’d hoped that this could be an open discussion. One where we could share information, without any dissembling.” She locked eyes with him, the smile no longer present, her expression hard and serious, her hands in her lap. “This is not an envoy. Not anymore. Not since we were joined by the Phalanx at the border. This is an army. Both of us know this.”
Silence settled. A silence Aeren felt against his skin, tingling. A silence intensified by the Tamaea’s unwavering gaze.
Aeren set the bowl of skewered meat down with a sigh. “I’d hoped that this would be an end to the conflict with the dwarren. I’d hoped
… many things. But you are correct, Tamaea. This is an army.”
She didn’t move. “The scout.”
Aeren nodded. He glanced down at the food on his plate, no longer hungry.
“What news did he bring?”
“The Tamaell has not told you?”
“The Tamaell has chosen not to inform me.”
He could leave. He knew that. He was a Lord of the Evant, and the Tamaea need not concern herself with the dealings of the Evant, of the lords and the Tamaell.
But Aeren knew that the Tamaell had something planned, Khalaek as well. He had Lotaern as an ally, and Lord Barak. Perhaps the Tamaea knew more than she thought.
He hesitated a moment more, staring into the Tamaea’s eyes, then said quietly, “To alliances then.”
The decision made, he felt as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders.
The Tamaea relaxed as well, her posture softening. “What news did the scout bring?” she repeated.
“He brought news that the human army-the Legion-has gathered on the border with over five thousand men, led by King Stephan. And approximately four days ago, they entered the plains, moving to intercept us.”
The Tamaea’s body froze, the only movement a slight widening of her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t even breathe.
Then she let out her breath in a low sigh, nearly a moan. “It’s the Escarpment all over again.”
Aeren frowned, taking a bit of meat from a skewer, chewing it thoughtfully. “Yes… and no.”
“What do you mean?” the Tamaea snapped. “All three races, coming together with armies at their backs, two of them under an ostensible agreement of peace-” She choked on her words, shook her head in frustration, turning to stare at the side of the tent. Aeren watched as tears glistened in her eyes, the only crack in the armor of rage she’d laid over herself. But no tears fell. She held them back, her entire body trembling with the effort.
Aeren let her grapple with the anger in silence, nibbling at his food. But he watched.
And sooner than expected, the hard edges of rage in her face softened, her eyes widening with dawning horror.
She turned to him and whispered, “What has Fedorem done? What has he planned?”
Aeren pushed his plate aside and looked at her. “I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he forged on. “None of the Evant knows, as far as I can discern.”
“Not even Khalaek?” The bitterness and hatred in her voice made him smile.
“Not even Khalaek.” He hesitated. “I believe Khalaek is playing his own game.”
“Khalaek is always playing his own game. What do you think it is this time?” When Aeren didn’t answer immediately, she asked, “Does it have anything to do with your human friend?”
Aeren felt his face go blank, unintentionally, a reaction learned on the floor of the Evant. “Yes and no.”
“You are too fond of that answer.”
Aeren smiled. “I have not shared this with any other Lords of the Evant, not even with the Tamaell. Mostly because neither Lotaern nor I know exactly what is happening. But it seems to be connected to Lord Khalaek.”
“Lotaern knows?”
“It has to do with the sarenavriell.”
The Tamaea’s eyebrows rose, but she nodded for him to continue.
And he did. He told her of the warning brought to him by Colin from the Faelehgre. He told her of Benedine and his research, of his meeting with one of Khalaek’s attendants, of his death. He told her of the awakening of the Wells and what little he knew of Colin’s powers. He told her everything, including Colin’s return to the forest to check up on the Faelehgre and their progress and that Colin had volunteered to return again when they’d halted unexpectedly today.
She accepted it all in silence, staring down at her hands. When he was done, she looked up, her eyes more troubled than before, somehow deeper and darker. “And you have not told the Tamaell?”
He shook his head with a frustrated snort and shrugged. “Lotaern has informed the Tamaell of the awakening of the sarenavriell and the reason for the attacks on the eastern Houses by the sukrael. As for the link between that and Khalaek… what is there to tell? We have no proof of anything. And then-” He cut himself off.
“And then what?” She stared at him in confusion, and in her eyes he saw sudden comprehension. “You think the Tamaell may be involved somehow.” The realization was followed immediately by anger. “Fedorem would never conspire with Khalaek-”
“Wouldn’t he? What happened at the Escarpment, then? Can you say without doubt that he did not conspire with Khalaek to bring about Maarten’s death?”
That brought the Tamaea up short. He could see her struggling with words, trying to come to her husband’s defense, to the Tamaell’s defense…
But in the end, she sagged with defeat. “No. I cannot say that without doubt.” Her voice hardened. “But I do not believe that Fedorem is conspiring with Khalaek. And especially not with the sukrael or these… these Wraiths. I refuse to believe it.”
She said it with such vehemence that Aeren felt himself relaxing. He hadn’t known how the Tamaea would react to the implied deceit.
“Even if Fedorem isn’t dealing with the Wraiths, Khalaek is. And neither Lotaern nor I have any idea why.”
The Tamaea pursed her lips in thought. “Everything Khalaek has done since he ascended in his House has been to bring him closer to the Tamaell. He wants to rule the Evant.”
“He wants to rule the Alvritshai,” Aeren countered.
“Is there a difference?”
Aeren didn’t answer. “What do you think the Tamaell will do about the Legion?”
It was not a question he would normally have asked the Tamaea. She was not a lord, was not part of the Evant. But the fact that she had called him here, the fact that she understood immediately what the presence of the Legion meant…
She watched him silently for a long moment, but he could not read her expression. All of her thoughts were hidden.
Like a lord.
“I think,” she said, then paused, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a weary sigh. “I think he cannot afford to ignore the presence of the Legion.”
Aeren nodded and found himself regarding the Tamaea with new eyes. “He can’t,” he said, and shifted so he could rise, gathering himself to depart. The Tamaea did not stop him. “He won’t.”
“Then we are headed toward war. Again.”
Aeren felt a flare of anger. “It would appear so.” He turned toward the tent’s opening.
“What about the dwarren? Will he still seek out the dwarren?”
Aeren paused, one hand on the soft material of the flap, holding it back.
In the corridor outside, he saw a flicker of movement, a blurred shadow, nothing more.
He flung the flap back completely, his heart pounding in his chest, his hand falling to the hilt of his cattan, the tent shaking with the force of his movement.
“What is it?” the Tamaea gasped behind him, surging to her feet.
Aeren ignored her, didn’t even turn. He scanned the narrow corridor beyond, the folds of cloth undulating in the light and shadows thrown by the lanterns of the room where they’d dined. But he saw nothing, no figures, no shapes. Nothing.
“Shaeveran?” he asked. His voice cracked with tension.
The Tamaea moved up behind him, stared out into the darkness of the tent around him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I saw…”
“What?”
“A shadow,” he said, forcing himself to release the grip on his sheathed blade. He turned to give the Tamaea a reassuring smile but was startled to find her holding a thin knife defensively in one hand. Not one of the knives from the table. This was a fighting knife, one used for close personal combat.
He caught her gaze and saw the challenge in her eyes. She wanted him to ask about the knife, a weapon that no one would expect the Tamaea to possess, let alone know how to use.
Instead, he repeated, “It must have been a shadow.”
Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she nodded. “Very well.” Aeren found himself reassessing her yet again. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push him either, moving away from the entrance of the tent. She set the thin blade on the edge of the table containing the remains of their meal. “Let us hope that when it comes to the Legion-and King Stephan-that the Tamaell acts with… discretion.”
Rising from his kneeling position, Aeren said, “Yes. Let’s hope.”
It was not a hope he believed in.
Two days later, Aeren and Eraeth were interrupted by the approach of one of the Tamaell’s pages. He halted a respectful distance away after catching their attention.
Aeren felt his chest tighten. “It appears the Tamaell has finally made a decision,” he murmured, low enough so only Eraeth could hear.
Eraeth grunted as Aeren motioned the page forward.
“The Tamaell requests your presence,” the page said with a short but precise bow of his head and shoulders, then added, “immediately.”
Aeren shared a look with Eraeth, and the bands around his chest tightened further. “Gather an escort, Protector. No more than four.”
Aeren and his escort halted outside of the council tent less than an hour later as the sun began its descent to the west. There, black clouds could be seen, the tattered fringes scudding toward the encampment. On all sides of the Tamaell’s tents, men were hustling to break down and pack away supplies, their actions frantic, and Aeren heard word being spread that the army would head out again within the hour. Servants were cursing, members of the Phalanx as well as they stumbled over them in their own preparations.
Aeren’s unease grew, but a moment later the page exited the council tent and said, “The Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive are waiting inside.”
He found the Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive sitting on mounds of pillows surrounding a large rectangular board of polished wood, a map spread over its length, held down with small lead obelisks at the four corners. Numerous other lead figures were strewn out over the map, and as Aeren moved into the room at a gesture from the Tamaell, he realized that the map depicted the entire length and breadth of the plains. Hills and valleys were shown, including the Escarpment. Settlements were denoted with black markings, human, dwarren, and the few Alvritshai villages established on the plains. Water sources were marked in blue, the forests in green. The rest of the map-the grassland-was shaded in various golds and yellows and browns.
The map was beautiful…
Except for the large black masses of lead figures in three separate locations across the plains.
With one quick glance, Aeren felt his heart shudder and closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly. He sent a small prayer to Aielan, then opened his eyes and met the Tamaell’s gaze.
“I see you understand the situation,” the Tamaell said, his voice heavy.
“Yes, Tamaell. I believe I do.”
The Tamaell nodded and motioned for Aeren to take a seat beside him, opposite the Tamaell Presumptive. Eraeth settled in opposite the Tamaell.
“King Stephan has left me no choice,” the Tamaell began. He pointed to the board as he spoke, moving from each massed group of figures to the other. “He’s gathered a large force of his Legion here, by our last accounting, and is headed toward the plains. I did not expect him to move, not when he is being pressed on the coast by the continued attacks of the Andovans in their attempt to reclaim their lost colonies. But those attacks are affecting Stephan’s army. He has not been able to gather as many of the Legion to him as he probably wanted, but he has certainly gathered more than enough to be a threat to us.”
“More than we have here in the envoy,” Eraeth murmured.
The Tamaell nodded, his expression grim. “Yes.” He turned his attention to the group that represented the dwarren, a frown creasing his forehead. “According to the scouts who have managed to get close to the dwarren gathering, there are more dwarren coming to the meeting than expected as well. Again, their force is larger than our own, around three thousand.”
“Which means it’s a true Gathering,” Aeren said. “For that many dwarren to be gathered together at once, there must be at least three clans represented, if not more. This means that the dwarren are serious about seeking peace. They could never have gathered that many clans together otherwise.”
“Unless they intend to simply overwhelm us,” the Tamaell Presumptive said.
Aeren turned to him, noticed how young he appeared. But not vulnerable. The time spent with the Phalanx on the borders had given the Tamaell Presumptive an edge, a hardness that Aeren did not remember seeing in him before he’d left. “The dwarren have never been able to work together before this.”
“Except at the Escarpment. And they were slaughtered there. Do you think that has been forgotten?” The Tamaell Presumptive shifted forward, his eyes narrowing. “I think it more likely that they remember, perhaps too well, and they-all of them-see a chance for reprisal.”
Aeren thought back to Garius and their meeting in the dwarren clan chief ’s tent. He did not think Garius intended vengeance.
However he could not say the same for Garius’ son, Shea.
“The dwarren are not that devious,” he said instead. “They are not a subtle race.”
The Tamaell replied. “No, they are not. But their intentions are irrelevant. I cannot ignore the presence of the Legion. Not this close, and not with those numbers.”
Aeren bowed his head. “You’ve ordered the envoy to intercept the Legion.”
“There is no other option.” Aeren couldn’t ignore the note of warning in the Tamaell’s voice.
“And what of the dwarren? Will we simply leave them?”
The Tamaell frowned, although Aeren couldn’t determine whether it was in annoyance or offense. “We will not ignore them either.” He shifted, reaching forward to retrieve a new set of lead figures from a flat, narrow box at the edge of the map table. “Unknown to any but Lords Khalaek, Jydell, and Waerren, I’ve had a force of two thousand mixed Alvritshai House Phalanx gathering on the edge of Alvritshai lands here,” he said, placing the figures on the map. “I’ve sent orders that they are to move immediately, in the hope that they can join with the envoy… here.” He pointed to a spot on the map and purposefully met Aeren’s gaze.
Aeren froze, his body rigid, all the hope he’d held out for the meeting with the dwarren stilled. “The Escarpment.”
The Tamaell drew back. “Yes.”
In his mind’s eye, Aeren could see the movement of the armies, could see them gathering, amassing as they moved toward the break in the land called the Escarpment. For a moment, he thought he could feel the earth shuddering beneath him with the tread of their feet, thought he could hear the clank and rattle and groan as the wagons moved. He smelled the sweat of their bodies, tasted the blood that would be spilled.
“All to come together there,” he whispered, barely aware he spoke the thought out loud. “There, on that grass, on that soil. Again.”
The words held in the silence for a long moment, somehow potent, throbbing with intensity.
But then the Tamaell leaned forward. “Not all,” he said. “You and the Tamaell Presumptive will go to meet with the dwarren as planned. To extend to them my apologies.”