Everyone shifted uncomfortably, but Colin simply nodded. “Gaurraenan found a few within Cortaemall’s Phalanx who were willing to open the seal of the southern portal.”
Petraen huffed in disbelief. “Betrayed by his own Phalanx?”
“It was a different time, remember,” Aeren said. “The Houses were much larger than they are now. There were more Alvritshai then, at least ten times as many as there are now. The Phalanx of each House was larger as well. The caitans and the lords of the Houses would not have been familiar with the individual members of their own Phalanx, not as they are now. I wonder more how Gaurraenan kept his tunnel secret. Building the manse was a nice subterfuge, but what of the masons and miners who built the tunnel? One of them would have said something.”
“Gaurraenen had them killed. As soon as the tunnel was finished, his Phalanx slaughtered them beneath the mountains. Those who worked on the tunnels had lived there since the tunnel was begun. None of them saw the light of day again. Gaurraenen blamed their deaths on a collapse, and ceased construction on the manse immediately out of respect, although it was nearly finished by then.”
Petraen scowled as he reached forward to lay another chunk of wood on the fire.
“So what happened?” Siobhaen asked. “We all know Cortaemall wasn’t killed by Gaurraenan.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Colin closed his eyes. He sat in silence for a long moment, absorbing the heat from the fire, feeling the chill embedded in the stone at his back, the scent of roast meat still thick in the air. “The reason Cortaemall was so revered, and remained in power for so long, is because he wasn’t stupid.” He opened his eyes, caught Siobhaen and Vaeren watching him closely. “He knew what Gaurraenan intended, knew of his pretense with the manse, of his tunnel, of his betrayal.”
Siobhaen flinched and looked away, troubled. Vaeren’s eyes narrowed, creases appearing above the bridge of his nose.
Colin let his gaze drop. “After years upon years of gathering influence within the Evant, rising to its highest ranks, the southern tunnel now complete, Gaurraenan finally felt ready to become Tamaell. He sent word to his contacts within Cortaemall’s House, and prepared his Phalanx for the long march to the southern pass. They left at the end of autumn, after the Evant had been called to a close, but before the snows would make traveling the pass with an army at his back impossible. When they finally emerged from the dark depths into the pass, they found it free of snow, the southern lands waiting for them. Gaurraenan took this as a sign, a good omen, and so he marched east. The weather held, and emboldened, he pushed on to the southern entrance of Caercaern.
“It was nothing like the Caercaern of today. There was no city, no walls and tiers and marketplaces and halls. It was simply a tower, where the Sanctuary now sits, on a ledge of stone that jutted out from the side of the mountains behind, a ledge barely large enough to hold two thousand men. On the first day of winter, with dark clouds beginning to emerge from the west, Gaurraenan and his men scrambled up the slopes to this ledge, and found the doors to the entrance at the base of the tower firmly closed. Nailed to those stone doors with iron spikes were the men of Cortaemall’s Phalanx who’d betrayed him, the men Gaurraenan had bribed into opening the seal to let him in.
“When he saw this, Gaurraenan felt true fear in his heart for the first time. He’d planned so well, been so patient—he’d thought nothing could go wrong. But seeing the Alvritshai nailed to the doors, seeing their dried blood staining the stone, his confidence shattered. Panic gripped him. He turned to order his Phalanx back to his own halls, back to the pass and the tunnels and safety—
“But it was already too late. From the height of the ledge, from the base of the tower, he turned to find Cortaemall and his House Phalanx emerging from the dense forest below. Ten thousand strong, against Gaurraenan’s six thousand, Gaurraenan realized that Cortaemall meant for there to be no survivors.
“There was only one chance of escape: the passage he had carved beneath his own House.
“Gathering his forces, he charged Cortaemall’s men before they could completely organize on the field below, surprising the Tamaell by giving up his advantage on the heights. Cortaemall had thought Gaurraenan would keep hold of the tower and defend the ledge to the last man. He had not planned on Gaurraenan fleeing. But he met the charge and when Gaurraenan gained enough ground to retreat to the west, Cortaemall hounded him with his own men the entire length of the Hauttaeren Mountains. It was no true battle, only skirmishes as one force caught up with the other before it could break away. Thousands fell, on both sides, as Gaurraenan’s flight grew more and more desperate. But Cortaemall was relentless, outflanking his army, ambushing them in close valleys, hitting them as they forged rivers and streams, harrying them without end. Until finally Gaurraenan reached the pass that led to his tunnel. He could taste the safety of the passage, even though the pass was now choked with snow. He could smell the darkness of the stone depths of his own halls.
“But Cortaemall was waiting for him. He’d brought the remains of his army, still seven thousand strong, to the pass. And as Gaurraenan and his men broke at the sight of the tunnel entrance—so close—Cortaemall fell upon him.
“It was a vicious battle, Gaurraenan driven mad by desperation, Cortaemall murderously calm. Blood stained the snow of the pass a bright, gaudy red in the pale sunlight of that winter’s day, and then the snow and blood churned to mud, trampled as the battle surged back and forth across the narrow valley. Gaurraenan arrived at the pass with only three thousand men remaining, and a thousand of those died within the first hour. The rest were whittled down to a mere five hundred, then a hundred, until those that were left were surrounded completely by Cortaemall’s Phalanx. And they were still a thousand paces from the tunnel entrance.
“When Gaurraenan realized he had gained no ground and that the fight was hopeless, he raised his sword high and ordered his men to stop. The battle ground down into silence, and Cortaemall walked across the bloody field toward where Gaurraenan stood. The two stared at each other for a long moment, Gaurraenan exhausted, beaten, Cortaemall’s eyes filled with rage. And then Gaurraenan gasped, ‘I concede. I surrender.’ He threw his sword to the ground at Cortaemall’s feet and collapsed to his knees, too weakened to stand.
“Cortaemall stood silently over him, breathing heavily, his face unreadable except for the rage.
“And then he raised his sword with both hands and severed Gaurraenan’s head from his body.”
Shock filled the eyes of the Flame and those in Aeren’s Phalanx.
“Gaurraenan had surrendered,” Colin said into the stunned silence. “Cortaemall should have honored that surrender, seized Gaurraenan’s House and declared it fallen. He should have banished Gaurraenan, exiled him to the glacial wastes farther north, or abandoned him in the southern lands. It was the honorable thing to do.
“But he didn’t.
“Beheading Gaurraenan might have been overlooked, but Cortaemall went even further.” He saw Siobhaen shaking her head and thought about her song, about why it had been her favorite, but he continued on. “Cortaemall ordered the hundred that had stood with Gaurraenan on the field in that pass beheaded as well. And then,” he said leaning forward, “he took his remaining Phalanx through the tunnel and into the heart of Gaurraenan’s House and he slaughtered every man, woman, and child that he found there. He rid himself of Gaurraenan and the stain the lord had made of his House completely.
“He declared Gaurraenan’s House ora-khai. He forbid any Alvritshai to speak of it, or its members, for all time.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT ora-khai means in Alvritshai?”
Colin glanced to where Aeren rode beside him. It was an hour after dawn and they were nearing the last village before the group would need to break away from the roadway and begin the ascent to the pass and the halls beneath the mountain. After he’d told the story of Gaurraenan and his House the night before, neither the members of the Flame nor the Rhyssal H
ouse had felt the need to converse any longer. They’d all turned in, wrapping themselves in blankets, most of their faces troubled. Colin had stayed awake long after the rest had fallen asleep, and none of them had slept well, tossing and turning on their stone pallets. Colin had kept the fire lit all night, throwing on a log or branch at odd intervals.
He hadn’t been able to sleep either, knowing what they would walk into the following day, knowing how it would affect him.
He shrugged his unease aside and addressed Aeren’s question instead. “It means ‘forgotten.’ ”
Aeren nodded. “I have to admit that it’s not a term I’ve heard used before, because we have another word for forgotten. But ora-khai,” he shook his head grimly, lips pressedtight. “It means more than simply forgotten. Khai means banishment or exile. Adding the ora in front of it means not only banished but purged—from sight, from voice, from thought, from memory. Eradicated as completely as possible, from every facet of life.
“Cortaemall must have been truly enraged to have declared not only Gaurraenan but his entire House ora-khai.”
“Enraged,” Colin said mildly, “or insane.”
Aeren shot him a black look. “Perhaps both,” he finally said grudgingly. “The Alvritshai have been raised to believe that Cortaemall was its greatest Tamaell since the dawning of Aielan’s Light. It is hard to accept that what you say actually occurred.”
“It did,” Colin said sharply. “I know it did.”
He was hoping he could control what had happened before, that neither Aeren nor the Rhyssal or Flame members would notice anything wrong at all.
When they reached the village, they left their horses at a stable yard, Aeren paying for their keep until their return, even though the Alvritshai—older even than Aeren—nearly fell prostrate at the feet of Vaeren and the rest of the Flame, offering up his services to Aielan. The caitan managed to keep him standing, and through the heavy bowing and genuflecting and muttered prayers learned where in the village they could find clothing and footwear more suited to traveling through snow.
Once provisioned, huddled now in fur-lined jackets with additional layers packed away in their satchels, the group continued west down the road, the woman who’d provided the jackets watching them while shaking her head in consternation.
Hours later, Colin abruptly halted, a prickling sensation coursing down his back. Squinting, he stared to the north, up into the reaches of the mountains, where the jagged, snow-covered peaks gleamed white in the sunlight, the sky free of clouds. The land sloped upward at a gentle angle away from the road, but he could see where it steepened before the tree line, a fold in the land jutting up before leveling out and vanishing behind the rocky side of the mountain.
“Here,” he said to himself, his voice soft. He tensed, felt a sheen of sweat on his forehead that didn’t come from exertion or the overly-warm jacket, caught the flicker of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, an impression of a figure there and then gone.
He shuddered and turned to find that the rest of the group had halted.
He motioned with his staff. “There. The pass is up there.” They looked, faces skeptical. “You can’t see the pass itself,” he added. “It’s hidden behind the outcropping of the mountain. And the entrance to the hall is above the tree line.”
“In the snow,” Vaeren said.
“Yes. We should climb until we reach the tree line, then make camp. We can get to the hall before nightfall the following day if we leave early and aren’t held up by the weather.”
No one responded, but a moment later Vaeren motioned toward Colin to take the lead.
It was not yet dusk when they reached the edge of the tree line, although the temperature had dropped sharply. The climb had been steep, the Rhyssal House guards and the two brothers scouting ahead to find the easiest path. The ground was covered with a dense fall of needles, kept free of the worst of the snow by the hanging branches of the cedars. After the first hour, large outcroppings of rock began to cut through the earth, like bones, riddled with moss and lichen. After reaching the tree line, Vaeren and Aeren sent the others out to find game and wood for a fire, while they searched for a suitable flat section of ground for a camp. One of the plinths of stone was wide enough to serve the purpose, once they brushed it free of the nearly foot-deep snow. Eraeth and Siobhaen began collecting heavy boughs, laid down on the hard stone for use as pallets.
Colin stared up toward the pass, still hidden behind a ridge of the mountain, as the others returned with freshly killed rabbit and enough wood to last the night. As their voices rose into the falling dusk behind him, a chill pressed against Colin’s skin. He shuddered, then heard someone approaching from behind.
Aeren moved up beside him. “You’ve been apprehensive all day,” he said, looking up through the last of the trees at the heavy fields of snow. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing that you or the others need be concerned about.”
“But there is something?”
Colin dropped his gaze from the pass. He didn’t want Aeren or the others to worry, but clearly he hadn’t been able to hide his fears as much as he’d thought. “There was much death on these fields of snow, on this ground. That much pain, that much dark and brutal emotion, leaves… a taint, an echo.”
“I’ve passed through Aielan’s Light,” Aeren said. “Lotaern always said it was because I was more sensitive to Her powers, Her workings, than others, so the trial was easier for me. But I’ve sensed nothing here.”
Colin half grunted, half laughed. “I’ve drunk from the Well. It demands a different kind of price. But I passed through here once before, alone, and survived. I don’t expect it to be any more difficult this time.”
“Then you should return to the fire. The rabbit is almost done.”
“Boreaus does know how to roast a rabbit,” Colin said with a false grin.
They awoke to a bitter chill the next morning, mist rising up from the valley below in thick sheets. Colin urged everyone to bundle up against the cold and they all donned heavy boots and their fur-lined coats. As soon as they were ready, he led them to the edge of the tree line and into the drifts of snow beyond.
It took them most of the morning to reach the base of the outcropping of stone that cut off the view of the pass, everyone struggling at first, quickly learning the best way to maneuver through the waist-deep snowbanks beyond. They followed in single file behind Colin, who tried to trample as clear a path as he could to make it easier. The worst part was closest to the base of the outcropping, where the land sloped up at its steepest angle. No one spoke, except for soft curses beneath their breath or the occasional cry or grunt as they lost footing. By midmorning, the mist had burned away completely and the sun reflected harshly off the field of white. Vaeren and some of the others tied a thin cloth over their eyes to keep from being blinded.
Colin spent most of the morning darting glances left and right at the slightest movement or shadow. He could feel time pressing up against him, could feel the events of the past gathering, as if they sensed him, knew that he was susceptible to them. But every shadow, every flicker of movement, every half-caught sound turned out to be a cloud overhead, the flutter of a bird’s wing as it took flight, or his own imagination. By the time he reached the outcropping of stone and rested one hand flat against the pocked granite, he was cursing himself for creating the tension that strained in his shoulders.
And then he rounded the edge of the outcropping, the jagged plinth of rock towering above him, its peak covered in snow, and found a man waiting.
The Alvritshai stood twenty paces away, his lean face darkened by a vicious frown. Dressed in full leather battle armor emblazoned with intricate leatherwork, he stood with arms crossed, one hand hanging above the pommel of his sheathed sword. His cloak billowed in a nonexistent wind in the lee of the rock, his hair blowing back from his face. As Colin drew up short, one hand still against the frigid rock to one side, he noted t
hat the Alvritshai was taller than those he knew, the heraldry and armor more archaic, even the bone structure of the man’s face subtly different.
But what struck him the most was the palpable anger he felt on the air and saw in the man’s eyes. He drew in a sharp breath, unconsciously brought his staff forward and across his body defensively.
They stared at each other. Distantly, Colin heard the faintest echo of swords clashing, of men screaming. Behind, he heard Eraeth and Vaeren gasping as they drew nearer. The sounds of the battle escalated, someone roaring in rage, and behind the lone figure Colin suddenly caught a shudder of movement. A thousand men surged forward. A battle cry rose into the chill winter air. Pennants snapped in a harsh wind as thousands of feet churned the snow-covered fields of the pass into mud—
“What is it?” Eraeth said at Colin’s side.
Colin blinked and the vision of the past vanished, the Alvritshai lord who had stood watching him with such anger and hatred gone. The snow where he had stood was untouched.
Colin exhaled, the sound harsh, but not as tortured as Eraeth’s own breath. Vaeren didn’t fare any better, coming up on the other side. They both stared out over the wide field of snow that had opened up before them, the mountains rising to either side, but dipping down in a shallow saddle of land between two of the peaks—a saddle that hadn’t been visible from the valley below.
“It’s the pass,” Colin said, motioning with his staff.
Eraeth frowned out at the expanse, then back at Colin. “There was something more,” he said. “You looked troubled when I approached.”
Catching the Protector’s gaze, Colin realized Aeren had told him of their conversation the night before. A part of him was irritated, but he should have known.
“I’m fine.”
Eraeth looked doubtful, the rest of the group gathering behind them. Vaeren merely said, “The weather’s held, but I’d rather be inside before the storm hits.”
“What storm?” Petraen asked.
Leaves of Flame Page 11
