Moiran was the first to move, reaching to pour some wine, but it was Aeren who spoke.
“The sarenavriell?” His voice was troubled. “I thought the Wells had been stabilized.”
“I thought so as well. For that matter, they may still be stabilized.”
“What makes you think otherwise?”
“Do you remember the storms on the plains?”
“They are impossible to forget. They were violent, their winds harsh, driving the rain so hard it felt as if it would scour your skin raw. And the lightning was… unnatural. Wicked. The thunder growling in your chest.”
Colin shuddered, recalling the viciousness of the storm that had caught the wagon train as it fled from the dwarren. He caught Aeren’s eyes and saw the same memory reflected there.
Fedaureon stirred. “What are you talking about? What storms?”
Aeren shook his head. “You would not know. The storms had been part of the plains since the arrival of the Alvritshai south of the Hauttaeren Mountains. The dwarren say that they were always part of the plains, as far back as their shamans can remember. But in the years before the Accord, the storms began to grow in intensity.”
“The number and size of the occumaen as well,” Moiran added. A shiver ran down her arms as if she were chilled, and her gaze met Colin’s, her eyes sad.
“Yes. The occumaen also became more prevalent. Shaeveran thought that the storms and the occumaen were the result of the awakening of the Wells by the Wraiths. He thought their actions were causing an imbalance, and that the storms and the occumaen were the side effects.”
Colin nodded. “After the Accord, I intended to see if I could correct the imbalance and stop the storms, but the attacks of the Wraiths on Alvritshai and dwarren lands grew too intense. I spent years trying to help the two races fight them, before finally realizing that something more drastic needed to be done. I created the Seasonal Trees so that the threat of the Wraiths and the Shadows would be halted, and after their seeding I focused my attention on the stability of the Wells. It took thirty years, and I lost count of how many times I faced the Wraiths and the Shadows, but I achieved a balance.”
“And the storms stopped,” Aeren said. “The occumaen faded. There hasn’t been an instance of either since you were born, Fedaureon.”
“Until now,” Vaeren said, and Aeren, Eraeth, and Moiran turned toward him.
He stood, his stance formal, as if he were addressing Lotaern in the Sanctuary, or the Lords of the Evant in the Hall. “Over a month ago, one of the acolytes from an outer temple on Uslaen House lands arrived at the Sanctuary with word of such a storm that ravaged the town the temple served. The Chosen did not believe him and sent a party of the Flame to verify the account. Since then, numerous reports of the storms have been drifting in from Redlien, Ionaen, and Licaeta, as well as Uslaen. A missive was sent to the dwarren shamans, the reply received two weeks ago. It appears a resurgence of the storms has been reported across the breadth of the plains. The occumaen as well. When Shaeveran appeared in the Sanctuary, we thought it was because of the recent activity.”
“But I hadn’t heard of the storms,” Colin said. “I was in Caercaern for a different reason.” He picked up the satchel he’d placed on the floor near his feet and removed the fine chain-metal cloth that held the knife. Aware that Vaeren frowned down at him in disapproval, he set the cloth on the table between the trays of food and then opened its folds.
The reddish-yellow color of the knife appeared to glow in the flickering firelight. Aeren and Fedaureon leaned forward, Eraeth and Daevon stepping away from their respective corners. Moiran leaned back with a frown.
Aeren shot Colin a hard look. “Does it work?”
“Does what work?” Daevon asked. “What is it?”
“It’s a knife that I believe will be able to kill one of the Wraiths. A knife that should be able to kill the sukrael.”
“Should?” Eraeth asked sharply.
Colin glanced up with a small smile. “It hasn’t been tested. Yet.”
Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, and Colin could see the sudden urgency in his expression. He wanted to test the blade himself, but he made no move to pick it up. None of the Alvritshai did.
“I found Lotaern to inform him about the knife,” Colin said, sitting back. “That’s when he took me to the Sanctuary’s roof and showed me one of the storms on the horizon. I told him that I would investigate, but Lotaern felt that an escort was necessary.”
Aeren said nothing, but Colin knew that both he and Eraeth heard what he had not said. The knife lay between them, although neither of them glanced toward it. After a moment, Aeren nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible.
“That does not explain why you came here,” Moiran said into the silence.
“No, it does not. The problem with our theory that the stability of the Wells has been altered is that I placed wardings on all of them, to keep the Wraiths away as well as everyone else. None of those wardings have been disturbed. The Seasonal Trees protect all but three of the Wells from interference by the Wraiths and Shadows, but Lotaern feels that the Wraiths have found a way around the wardings, and so, with my escort, we are going to these three Wells to see if they have been touched or if the wardings have been tampered with.”
“And where are these three Wells?” Aeren asked.
“Do you have a map?”
Aeren motioned to his son, who stood and began sorting through the papers on the large desk, Eraeth and Daevon moving over a moment later to help him.
“The Wells are outside the influence of the Trees, obviously. One of them lies far to the south, beneath the lands settled by the Provinces,” Colin said as they waited. He felt Vaeren listening intently. He wondered yet again what his orders from Lotaern were, but shrugged that aside. “The second lies to the west, across the Arduon, in Andover.”
Aeren’s eyebrows rose in shock. “I had not realized there were sarenavriell in Andover.”
“Neither had we,” Vaeren said sharply, anger threading through his voice. Colin assumed he meant Lotaern and the Order. The fact they had not known was strangely satisfying.
“There is only the one, as far as I know,” he said.
At the desk, Daevon and Eraeth had halted their search at this revelation, but Fedaureon cried out and pulled a sheaf of papers from a stack. He sorted through them as he came to the table, while Moiran moved the trays of forgotten food to one side to make room.
“Here,” he said, setting down a map of the Hauttaeren Mountains and Alvritshai lands. Each of the eight Houses were marked with different shades of color, Caercaern and the major cities black dots with swirling script, black lines marking roads and trade routes connecting them. Everyone, Moiran and the Flame included, Eraeth looking over Aeren’s shoulder, leaned forward as Colin perused the map to orient himself.
“And the third,” he said, turning the page toward him and pointing, “is right here.” He glanced up, met Aeren’s gaze squarely. “In the White Wastes.”
“THERE ARE ONLY TWO ROUTES northward to the lands that we abandoned,” Aeren said, sitting back in his seat as the shock of Colin’s revelation slowly wore off. “We can travel through the halls beneath Caercaern, or we can travel to the coast and take a ship up around the coastline, hoping for a break in the ice that would permit landfall. I’d not recommend the ocean approach.”
“And returning to Caercaern will add another week or more to the trip,” Vaeren said with a scowl, turning on Colin. “Why did you have us travel here if you knew we were going to be turning back? We could have sent a message by courier. We could have summoned Lord Aeren to Caercaern if it were that important. Aielan’s Light, we didn’t need to come here at all!”
“There is another way,” Colin said.
Vaeren straightened. “What do you mean?”
“I spent a large amount of time reading the Scripts in search of any hint about the locations of the Wells, and during that time I read much of Alvritshai history
as well. Once, the Alvritshai dominated the entire region above the Hauttaeren, from the coast to the northern arctic sea, the mountains to the glacial ice to the north. There are more halls within the mountains besides those behind Caercaern, and there are passes through the Teeth that we can use to reach them.
“One of those passes, called Gaurraenan’s Pass, is here,” he pointed to a region of the mountains beneath where he’d indicated the Well lay. “It’s secluded in the reaches above Nuant House lands, but it is still accessible. Once we reach its edge, we can travel to the far side of the Hauttaeren through the ancient halls beneath.”
Vaeren stared at the map for several moments. “How long do you think it will take?”
“It depends on the storms and the snow, of course, but we should be at the Well within two weeks.”
Vaeren met his gaze, his expression hostile. “You planned this from the beginning. Why didn’t you tell the Chosen?”
“Because he did not need to know.”
Vaeren’s face darkened, his hand tightening on the hilt of the cattan at his side. Colin thought he’d confront him there, in front of Aeren and the rest, but instead he turned to Moiran. “Lady Moiran, if you would have someone escort me to my rooms, I’d like to retire for the night. The journey from Caercaern has been long and tiring.”
Moiran stood with a slow, formal grace. “Of course. I’ll show you to your rooms myself.”
Moiran led him from the room, leaving Aeren, Colin, and the others alone. Aeren waited until he heard their bootfalls die out before he frowned. “It does not appear that you are on good terms with the Order.”
Colin laughed. “Lotaern is still angry over what happened with the Winter Tree. He feels I should have brought the seed to him first, that it was obvious the Tree’s powers fell under the Order’s mantle, not the Tamaell’s.”
“But that happened over eighty years ago,” Fedaureon protested.
“This isn’t truly about the Tree,” Aeren said.
Daevon answered Fedaureon’s confused look. “It’s about the knife,” he said, nodding toward where it still sat on the table. They all looked down at it.
“I still don’t understand.”
Aeren reached forward and, with a wave of permission from Colin, picked it up. He frowned as he held it and Colin wondered if he could feel the power of the forest pulsing through it. He’d passed through Aielan’s Light, so perhaps he could. Then Aeren handed it to Eraeth, who hefted it in one hand, testing its weight as Lotaern had done.
“Colin came to the Alvritshai with an object of power once before and he used that object without Lotaern’s foreknowledge. The Chosen does not like to be surprised. He likes to be in control. If Colin had come to him with the Winter Tree, he would have used the Tree against the Evant, to gain even more power. The fact that Colin brought it to me, and then to the Tamaell, meant that he could not use it to his immediate advantage.”
“He adapted quickly,” Eraeth muttered.
“He did,” Aeren agreed. “Even though the Tree was never initially under his control, he’s gained control of it using the lords’ fears. For all intents and purposes, the Tree is now part of the Order. He’s walled it away from the people and uses it as a symbol of the Order’s strength.”
“That was never its intent,” Colin grumbled.
“No, but that is how it’s been used. And now you bring to Lotaern another object of power. One that does not have the same visual strength as the Winter Tree, but—if you are correct—is more deadly. The Tree merely protects us from the sukrael; the knife may be able to kill them. If Lotaern can show that the Order holds the power to rid the world of the sukrael forever…”
Fedaureon nodded his head in understanding. “The Alvritshai commoners will band around him even more. They’ll see him as a savior of sorts.”
“He wants the knife. He may even need the knife,” Aeren said. “The Winter Tree has been in Caercaern for over eighty years. The awe over its creation and its power has faded. For those that live in Caercaern, it has already become commonplace. Only those outside of Resue House lands find it striking. And those that have been born since it was planted, like Fedaureon, have never known a time when the Tree was not in Caercaern, protecting them. When they begin to take their places in the Evant, Lotaern will lose even more of his power, more of his control.”
“It’s already begun,” Eraeth added. “Both Houdyll and Terroec ascended in their fathers’ places after the introduction of the Winter Tree.”
Colin stared at the knife in Eraeth’s hands and grimaced. “I should never have gone to him after forging it, should never have revealed its existence to him.”
“You worked with him in its creation. It was only natural for you to take it to him.”
But Colin knew what Aeren would not say out loud: that Colin had once again ignored the changing world around him, that if he had only looked he would have seen how Lotaern had lost power in the Evant and he would have known that sharing the creation of the knife would be a mistake.
He caught Aeren’s gaze and said, “You are too forgiving.” Then he frowned, shifted forward. “Why does Lotaern seek this power? The Order is already equivalent to a House, from what I saw in the Evant years ago. Hasn’t he achieved enough?”
Aeren sighed and shook his head. “Once, before the threat of the Wraiths and the sukrael, I believe the Chosen would have been content with what he has now, but not any longer. I think he believes that the Wraiths and the sukrael are a trial, sent by Aielan to test us, to bring us all back beneath her Light.”
“He may be right,” Eraeth said.
“Yes, but he believes our failure to eliminate the Wraiths is because we are not showing enough faith—in Aielan, in the Flame… in the Chosen. He believes the Lords of the Evant, and the Tamaell in particular, have fallen short of Aielan’s regard. He believes that it is Aielan’s will that the Order rise up and seize control, that only then can we defeat the Wraiths and the sukrael.”
“With himself as Chosen.”
Aeren nodded. “He thinks the war with the Wraiths is a religious war, and that only with the Order in power can the Alvritshai prevail.”
“I would think he would welcome my help then,” Colin muttered, “since I have brought him the Tree, and now the knife.”
“And have a human be the savior of the Alvritshai?” Eraeth scoffed. “He has reserved that role for himself.”
Moiran returned, trailing a few servants who began clearing out the remains of the food, leaving the wine. “Are the members of the Order situated?” Aeren asked.
“I have placed them in the farthest corner of the house, on the second level. They will have a spectacular view of the lake.”
Aeren smiled. “And be as far from this discussion as possible.”
Moiran sat down beside Colin. “I have no idea what you are insinuating,” she said innocently. “Now, what did I miss?”
“We were discussing Lotaern.”
“He wants the knife, to solidify and regain some of his lost power within the Evant,” Moiran said succinctly. At Fedaureon’s annoyed look, she added, “I was the Tamaea of the Evant at one point, Fedaureon. I know how power works and is wielded.” Then she turned to Colin. “But the caitan asked an important question: Why did you come here? Even using the pass and the halls beneath the mountain, you did not need to come to Artillien.”
Colin could hear in the tone of her voice that she already knew the answer and did not approve. Taking a deep breath, he caught and held Aeren’s gaze and said, “I need reinforcements. I was hoping—”
“No.” Moiran stood as her voice cut across Colin’s, so she could glare down at Aeren. “You are a Lord of the House of Evant. You will not traipse off to the White Wastes.”
“It’s winter. Anything that would require the attention of the Lord of House Rhyssal can be handled by its heir.”
Moiran crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the way Fedaureon perked up in his seat.
“It is winter, yes, which means that the White Wastes will be as dangerous and as deadly as at any other time of the year. And it is not the heir’s responsibility to care for the House.”
“But it will be.”
Moiran did not immediately respond, but she did not move either. Colin shared a glance with Eraeth, who still held the knife. Fedaureon had shifted forward and now sat on the edge of his seat, his head bowed, eyes on the ground, although Colin could see the tightness in his shoulders. Daevon regarded his charge with a slight frown of disapproval. The tension in the room was awkward and strained.
Then, in a quiet voice that throbbed with suppressed emotion, Moiran said, “I have already lost one husband to the Evant and the protection of the Alvritshai. I do not want to lose another.”
Aeren stilled, a frown darkening his face, and then he stood as well, reached forward to grip Moiran’s shoulders. She tensed, met his gaze with head tilted upward, mouth set. “Fedaureon can handle the House, especially with you and his Protector here to guide him. And I will not be venturing out alone. I will have Eraeth with me as my Protector, and members of my own Phalanx.”
Moiran pulled out of his grasp, reached down to take up the last decanter of wine, but halted before Eraeth, the Protector stiffening. “Bring him back to me.”
Then she left, the room silent except for the crackle of the fire. Slowly, the tension bled from the room, until Fedaureon finally stirred.
Before he could speak, Aeren said, “Never defy your mother like that, Fedaureon.”
“Not if you value your life,” Eraeth muttered, then he placed the knife back onto the metal mesh of the cloth. Colin folded it up and packed the knife away in his satchel.
“Do you expect trouble from the Flame?”
Colin shook his head. “Not immediately, no. The only reason I think Lotaern allowed me to leave Caercaern with the knife in my possession is that it hasn’t been tested yet, and he knew it would be nearly impossible for him to take it from me and keep it. But I’d feel better having you and Eraeth by my side, rather than only members of the Flame.” He stood, caught Aeren’s gaze. “There’s no need, though, if you’d rather respect Moiran’s wishes. I can handle it myself.”
Leaves of Flame Page 8
