“So I went to the dwarren to ask them for access to the Confluence.”
Lotaern stilled. “The ruanavriell?”
“Yes.”
“And they allowed you to see it? They allowed you to use it?”
The dwarren guarded the Confluence with a religious zeal that transcended even clan lines. If the Confluence were threatened, all clan rivalries were forgotten. It was their most closely guarded secret, one that Colin knew the Alvritshai had been attempting to discover for hundreds of years. The sons of the Houses of the Evant were once sent into the plains to search for the Confluence as part of their Trial, their initiation into the House. They were sent to find the Confluence’s source, and could not return until they’d obtained a vial of the rose-tinged healing waters. Most of those on their Trial found an offshoot of the Confluence, a river or stream or pool of the water tinged pink by the heart of the Confluence, but none of them had found the true source. None that had survived their Trial anyway. Colin had met Aeren during his Trial, and Aeren had given the vial he’d gathered to Colin’s father to help heal one of the members of the wagon train.
With the signing of the Accord by Tamaell Thaedoren, the Trials and the search had ceased, at the request of the dwarren and in the interest of forging peace. Now, the location of the Confluence could be easily surmised by the conflux of the four linear rivers that divided the dwarren plains into quarters… but how to access the Confluence was still a secret. It lay underground, in the labyrinthine depths that only the dwarren knew and controlled.
Colin met the avid interest in Lotaern’s eyes and said, “Yes. As with the Order, I studied with the dwarren shamans, learned about their religious beliefs, learned of their gods—Ilacqua and the four gods of the winds—and their vow to protect the Lands. Perhaps if the Alvritshai spent more time learning of their ways, the dwarren would be more accommodating.”
Lotaern frowned at the reprimand, but ignored it, motioning toward the knife. “And the effects of the Confluence—of the ruanavriell—worked?”
“With time, yes.”
Lotaern reached for the knife, but halted with his hand hovering over its handle. “May I?”
Colin caught the barest hint of annoyance that he had to ask, but nodded.
Lotaern lifted the blade lightly, treating it as if it were fragile, although it had the heft and weight of a normal dagger.
“Careful,” Colin said. “It’s sharp. Sharper than a normal blade.”
Lotaern frowned, then touched the edge of the blade lightly with one finger, wincing as he drew it away, a thin line of blood already welling up from the cut. He held his injured hand to one side and let the blood drip onto the table until one of the watching guardsmen produced a small square of cloth and handed it to him, shooting Colin a dark glare.
“I warned him,” Colin said to the guard, his voice soft, although his hands clenched on the staff.
“Yes, you did,” Lotaern muttered. He pressed his finger into the cloth, but did not let go of the knife, turning it in the light of the sconces, examining the handle, the double-sided blade, the sharp point. He glanced toward Colin. “Why a knife and not a sword?”
“The length of wood given to me was not heavy enough for a longer blade. And I thought starting with something smaller would be better, until we knew if it would work.”
“How long did it take to forge this?”
“What day is it? What year?”
Lotaern looked up, eyebrows raised. “The fifth of Iaen, third quarter, the five hundred and eleventh year since the Abandonment.”
Colin thought for a moment. “Then it’s been seventeen years.”
Lotaern’s mouth opened, but no words came out. They stood staring at each other silently, until Lotaern finally closed his mouth and grunted. “Why does it take so long?”
“Because the heartwood must be submerged long enough for the Confluence’s waters to penetrate to the wood’s core. This knife took twelve years. It will take even longer if we attempt the molding of a sword or anything larger. And then, before I could mold it with Aielan’s Light, it had to dry.
“About a month ago, I returned to the Hauttaeren, to the fires below, and I began to craft this.”
“You’ve been down in the Halls for a month and none of the acolytes or members of the Flame were aware of it?”
“Yes.”
Lotaern glared at the Alvritshai who’d given him the now bloody cloth for the cut on his finger. The guardsman shifted uncomfortably, bowing his head slightly. Colin suppressed a small smile as he shifted his grip on the staff. He could sense the animosity radiating from the man, although he wasn’t certain why the member of the Flame felt he was a threat.
“Perhaps we need additional guardsmen surrounding Aielan’s Light,” the Chosen said in a leaden voice, and the guardsman nodded imperceptibly.
“You shouldn’t fault the Order of the Flame,” Colin said. “I can remain hidden if needed.”
“Yes, but you are not the only one with those powers. As we learned before, with the unfortunate Benedine, the Wraiths can hide in our midst as well.”
“Not with the Winter Tree in Caercaern,” Colin countered, then cursed himself for bringing up the touchy subject.
“Ah, yes. The Winter Tree. I’ve often wondered how the Tree protects us from the Wraiths—men and women like you, who have drunk from the sarenavriell—and yet appears to have no effect on you at all.”
Colin almost didn’t answer, Lotaern’s tone carrying an edge, some of the anger over not being consulted about the Winter Tree before its introduction to the Evant seeping through. “I created them,” he finally said. “In some sense, they are a part of me. And unlike the Wraiths, I have not fully embraced the Well. It hasn’t affected me to the extent that it has changed them.” He thought about the stain of the Shadow that swirled beneath his skin beneath the outer robe and the shirt beneath. Creating the Seasonal Trees—and now the knife—as well as trying to establish a balance between the awakened Wells had taken its toll.
“I see.” Lotaern considered for a moment, long enough for Colin to begin wondering what he was thinking, but then he dropped his gaze back to the knife.
“Molding the knife is one thing,” he said, then set the blade back down onto the table between them. “But it doesn’t address the real question.”
“Which is?”
Lotaern looked up. “Does it work? Can it be used against the sukrael? Can it kill one of the Wraiths?”
Colin straightened. “Short of testing it on myself, there’s only one way to find out.” He thought about what Aeren had said on the balcony decades ago, about the dark understanding he’d seen in Eraeth’s eyes, about Walter.
“And do you know where the Wraiths are?”
Colin shook his head. “No. The Faelehgre have still not determined how to track them, or the Shadows, except through the news of those who have been attacked by them.”
Lotaern stilled and frowned. “I thought—” he began, then halted and murmured, almost to himself, “No, you wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve been within the mountain for the last month.”
“I wouldn’t know what?” Colin asked.
Lotaern moved away from the table, toward the two guardsmen and the door. “When the acolyte said that you were here, waiting for me, I thought you’d come for a different reason.” He motioned to the head guardsman, returning the bloody cloth at the same time. The moody guardsman nodded and stepped out into the corridor beyond, and for the first time Colin thought that perhaps the tension he’d felt from Lotaern and the guards of the Order of the Flame came from something other than the strained relationship the Chosen and he maintained.
The Chosen turned back. “Follow me. Vaeren will escort us to the top of the temple. There’s something I need to show you.”
Colin hesitated only a moment, suddenly uncertain and uneasy. He retrieved his satchel, removed a swath of finely made chain mail, the links so small it was nea
rly cloth, wrapped the wooden knife in the metal folds, and tucked it away.
Vaeren and the other guard were waiting in the outer corridor and began moving as soon as Colin appeared. Members of the Order of the Flame stepped out of their path as they wound through the corridors, climbing stairs until they’d reached the main level of the temple of Aielan that stood in the center of Caercaern. The groups of Flame fell away, replaced by the scurrying acolytes in training in the temple, and still they ascended flight after flight of stairs, passing through corridors that Colin had never seen even during his years of study. The members of the Flame looked apprehensive, but the acolytes merely appeared curious.
“Where are we going? What is it that I need to see?”
“Wait,” Lotaern said. “We’re almost there.”
The wide stairs leveled out, a set of doors at the far end of a narrow hall. Vaeren outpaced them, reaching the doors with enough time to open them just as they arrived at the threshold. A gust of frigid air, tasting of winter and the snows of the mountains, blasted through the opening and bit into Colin’s skin, passing through his robes as if he were naked, and then he followed Lotaern out onto the roof of the temple into the darkness of night. The Chosen didn’t pause, moving across the stone roof toward the building’s edge, his own robes flapping about his feet, his only concession to the cold the hunch in his shoulders. Snow that had fallen earlier blew across his path in a fine dust as Colin followed, staff in hand, satchel flung across his back. Behind, Vaeren and the other guard produced lanterns and came after them, the light reflecting warmly off of the roof, although the lanterns created no real heat against the chill.
When he reached the edge of the building, Colin stared down into the wide plaza in front of the temple, the arc of stone obelisks rising into the night beneath him. Flurries blew back and forth, lifted up by the wind from the few drifts of snow that remained from the recent storm. Lantern lights dotted the cityscape to either side outside the plaza and in the first tier beneath them. From this vantage, Colin could see the base of the Winter Tree over the wall that had been built around it, its leaves thrashing in the wind, its length towering above him, even though the marketplace where he’d planted the seed stood on the far side of the city. It had grown since the planting, and even though he had created the Tree, had crafted the seed using the power of the Lifeblood and Aielan’s Light, its sheer size awed him. He stared up at its branches, the uneasiness Lotaern had evoked crawling across his skin as he searched it for damage, for flaws, assuming the Chosen had brought him to the roof so that he could see the Tree. But he saw nothing wrong, felt nothing wrong, although he’d only be able to tell for certain by touching the Tree itself.
He turned toward Lotaern in confusion. “What is it? I don’t see anything wrong with the Winter Tree. It appears healthy.”
Lotaern shook his head. “It isn’t the Winter Tree. As far as I know, it’s fine. The Wardens—the acolytes assigned to its care—have reported nothing amiss.”
“Then what did you bring me up here to see?”
Lotaern nodded toward the south and east, toward the night sky, where the stars on the horizon were blotted out by what Colin assumed were clouds. Colin shifted position and moved down the edge of the roofline, staring into the distance. Neither Lotaern nor the two guards followed him. He watched the horizon intently, his fingers growing numb as the wind gusted into his face, but he saw nothing.
He had just begun turning toward the Chosen in irritation when something within those clouds flickered. Lightning flared, arcing from cloud to cloud, their contours harshly and vividly exposed, the sky beautiful for the space of a heartbeat before plunging back into darkness.
Colin sucked in a sharp breath, waited for the rumble of thunder though he knew the storm was too distant for them to hear it, even as horror crawled its way down into his chest. He straightened and turned toward Lotaern. “That’s not a natural storm,” he muttered, loud enough to be heard, even though his voice felt weak.
“No, it’s not. You see why I am concerned.”
“Yes.” Colin turned back to the darkness that blotted out the sky. Even as he watched, more lightning streaked from the clouds, flashing a preternatural purple. Like the storms that had scoured the plains before and after the Accord, that had plagued the dwarren and the Alvritshai alike for decades.
Until he’d balanced the power of the Wells and the storms had stopped.
“Someone has upset the balance of the sarenavriell,” he said, stepping forward as he angled his staff across his body protectively.
“That was our thought as well,” Lotaern said from behind him. “It’s why I thought you’d come.”
“No. I knew nothing of this.” He searched the storm, as if he could find answers there. Then he spun toward the Chosen, glancing toward Vaeren and the other member of the Flame. Anger had begun to build, creeping through the shock and sudden clench of his gut. “But it isn’t possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“It isn’t possible! I spent nearly thirty years finding those Wells and adjusting them so that the power had stabilized.” He began to pace, the frigid wind and the numbness of his fingers forgotten, his brow creased in furious thought.
“And the Wraiths can’t upset that balance somehow? They can’t adjust what you did?”
“No! I placed wards around all of the Wells, not just for the Wraiths and the Shadows, but to keep everyone else away from them as well. Their power is too dangerous, too deadly. I didn’t want anyone stumbling onto one, drinking from it, becoming like me, like the Wraiths. The Wells are protected!”
“None of those wards have failed?”
“I would know. They are tied to me, linked to the Lifeblood, to the sarenavriell. Even if one had failed, most of the Wells are within the boundaries of the Seasonal Trees. The Wraiths couldn’t approach them.”
“Most, but not all. How many are outside the Trees’ influence?”
Colin paused, drew in a deep breath to steady himself, said, “Three. Only three.”
Lotaern nodded. “Then you’ll need to verify that the wards on those three are still intact and that the Wells haven’t been altered in any way. Maybe the Wraiths have found a way around your wards. Or maybe something else has occurred.”
Colin straightened, back prickling at the tone in Lotaern’s voice, the hint of condescension. The words rang with command, as if Lotaern were ordering him to act, as if Colin were one of his acolytes.
“Such as?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
The guards caught the hint of warning. They stiffened.
Lotaern ignored it. “Perhaps you haven’t found all of the Wells yet.”
Colin wanted to scoff, his shoulders already tensing, but he was forced to let the anger out with a ragged exhalation. “You helped search the Scripts for the locations of the sarenavriell. You know how exhaustive that search was.”
“Yes. But the sarenavriell existed long before the Alvritshai appeared in these mountains. It’s possible that the locations of some of them remained hidden, even from our ancestors, those who wrote the Scripts in the first place.”
Colin nodded in grudging agreement, then turned back to the storm, watching the ethereal purplish lightning light up the skyline. The storm appeared to be moving southwest, out toward the plains and dwarren lands. He frowned. With effort, he shoved his irritation with Lotaern aside. He needed to focus on this new problem, on what it meant and how to solve it.
“When did you first notice the storms?” he asked after a long moment.
“A little over two weeks ago.”
Fingers aching with the cold, Colin moved across the roof toward the doorway. He heard the Chosen, Vaeren, and the second guard following, the light of the lanterns spilling his shadow out in front of him.
“What do you intend to do?” Lotaern asked as they entered the warmth of the Sanctuary, the guards closing the doors behind them.
Colin began massaging his hands as the
Chosen took the lead and they descended into the halls and corridors of the Sanctuary proper. “First, I intend to get warm,” he said, snapping his hands briskly to increase the blood flow. “Then I intend to visit Lord Aeren.”
He smiled at Lotaern’s irritated glance.
The irritation did not taint the Chosen’s voice when he spoke. “And the storms?”
Colin’s smile faltered. He hated to admit it, but Lotaern had been correct. “I’ll have to verify that the Wells have been untouched, as you said.”
They reached the main corridor, the central chamber of worship for the Alvritshai and its acolytes opening up before them, its cavernous heights lit with thousands of candles. The chamber smelled of oil and smoke and incense, and echoed faintly with the scuffing of sandals from acolytes moving through the corridors and hallways above.
Lotaern paused, then said, “You won’t do it alone. You’ll have an escort of the Order of the Flame with you.”
“I DON’T NEED AN ESCORT,” Colin protested.
“But you will have one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.
“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.
The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”
Leaves of Flame Page 5
