As he moved, he saw the first signs of the dwarren’s return. When he’d come here before, the hollow had been empty save for the trees and their leavings. Now, he spotted a dwarren spear thrust into the ground at the lip of the hollow, ceremonial feathers tied to its end. Other offerings were scattered on the ground among the cones and twigs—a carved scepter, a tangle of leather strands woven into a band, a latticework of beads and bone. He paused over a small mound of earth, like an anthill, that had been heaped up, a depression made in its center. Something dark had been poured into the depression, an offering of water or blood.
There were no dead embers or charred brands anywhere. Fire was not something used to appeal to a forest.
The fact that the dwarren had rediscovered their connection to the forest gave him some small hope that perhaps he wasn’t fighting the Wraiths and the Shadows alone. Aside from the spiritual connection to the Lands that the hollow provided, there was only one reason to come here.
The same reason Colin had come.
He found the center of the hollow, where the ground had been tread upon so often it had been swept clear of all debris and packed solid. He stared up into the patch of night sky above, then let time resume. The branches of the cedars swayed in a gentle breeze that did not penetrate to the hollow. The cloying scent of cedar—heavy with time slowed—became almost overpowering with its intensity. He breathed it in deeply, allowing his lungs to adjust to it, and felt it affecting his body, similar to the smoke of the dwarren yetope. His gaze dropped to the surrounding trees, the trunks that lined the edge of the hollow suddenly sharp and distinct in the darkness, as if they’d been lit with a soft, hazy yellow light. He circled once, twice, and then settled to the ground, legs crossed before him. He let his arms drop into his lap and hung his head forward, back hunched.
And he breathed. Slow, deep breaths, drawing the scent of the forest inside him, letting it permeate him. His arms began to prickle after ten such breaths, the ground to grow warm beneath him as his body relaxed, his heart calming. He felt himself drawn deeper into that earth, centering downward, to where the roots of the forest twined among the stone and the flow of the Lifeblood. The essence of the forest he had only brushed when touching the boles of the trees grew thick and viscous, like sap. It smothered him as he submerged himself in it, surrounding him with its luminescence. And then he opened his mind, to allow it to see his need.
Unlike the Lifeblood, more like Aielan’s Light, the essence of the forest was animate and aware, but in a way that Colin could not comprehend. He’d learned long ago not to try, to simply allow the forest to feel him, to taste him. He sensed its presence, filtering through him like the growth of roots through soil, searching.
Distantly, he heard a sigh, as of wind through branches, and the creak and groan of wood shifting. Something brushed his shoulders, his hunched back, tickled the base of his neck. He shuddered at the touch. Then the sensation retreated, the essence of the forest withdrawing from his mind. The earth pushed him up out of its warmth.
He gasped and opened his eyes, straightening where he sat, his lower back screaming with tension. He rotated his aching neck, green needles falling from his shoulders to patter onto the ground around him. Something sticky on his neck caught at his shirt and he reached back to touch it, his fingers coming back tacky with sap. As he twisted the pain out of his shoulders, he noticed what had been left on the ground before him.
A new staff, its length riddled with twisting lines, like those found beneath the bark of a branch after it had been peeled away. He reached out to take it automatically—it was what he had come for, a staff to replace the one stolen by Vaeren in the northern wastes—then paused.
The forest had left another gift. A scattering of arrows, made of the same wood as his staff. He counted at least four dozen, along with two longbows like those the Alvritshai carried.
For Eraeth and Siobhaen.
He glanced out into the surrounding forest with a frown. He had not asked for the bows, nor the arrows. Yet the forest felt he needed them.
The sentience behind such a gift sent a shiver down his spine. He had thought he’d come here often enough to understand the forest, had thought that it was aware, but only enough to know what he asked for and why.
It had never anticipated a need he had not anticipated himself.
Leaning forward, still uneasy, he closed his hand around the staff and felt the recognition of the life-force within it pulse. He drew that life-force around him, the contact easing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d felt. The presence of the staff completed him in some way. He had held one nearly all of his life, since drinking from the Well and becoming part of Terra’nor, part of the forest. He took a moment to run his free hand up and down its length, smiling.
Then he gathered up the two bows—without string, he noticed—and the arrows, the shafts made of a single piece of wood, the points sharp, but with no fletching. He bound the arrows in groups of twelve using twine, six dozen in all, and shoved the bulky bundles awkwardly into his satchel. He worked quickly. It had taken longer to commune with the forest than he had expected. He needed to find his way back to the dwarren war party, before Eraeth and Siobhaen panicked at his absence.
Everything packed, he took the staff up in one hand, the two bows in the other, and turned to scan the circle of cedars one more time. He bowed his head and murmured, “Thank you, for all the gifts you have given me before, and for those you have given me tonight.”
Lotaern nodded to the White Phalanx guardsman who’d escorted him through the Tamaell’s personal chambers on the highest tier in Caercaern to the rooftop gardens. As Chosen of the Order, he had been to these gardens on several occasions, usually for small, casual gatherings of Lords of the Evant and other Alvritshai of power in the city, hosted by either Thaedoren himself or, more recently, Tamaea Reanne.
He had never been summoned here to meet with the Tamaell alone.
Thaedoren stood on the far side of the garden, his hands on the wide stone abutment. He gazed out over the city of Caercaern, the Hauttaeren rising off to one side, water cascading down the rocky mountain face in thin sprays that reflected the afternoon sunlight. Some of those falls were caught above the tier and funneled into a stream that wound through the garden, the water escaping in another waterfall down the side of the highest level before winding its way down to the city below.
Lotaern frowned at the Tamaell’s back, his stomach clenching. The summons had arrived that morning, while he’d been meeting with Peloroun and Orraen beneath the Winter Tree. The timing made him wonder if the Tamaell knew of his dealings with the two lords, of what they had planned. It would be the end of Thaedoren’s rule of the Evant and the Alvritshai as Tamaell, and the rise of Lotaern and the Order in its place. Did he suspect anything? He could not imagine how the Tamaell would have found out.
And yet, Thaedoren had asked to see him.…
Straightening his shoulders, Lotaern stepped forward, his features carefully neutral. He did not know what the Tamaell knew, so would assume nothing. The summons could concern anything, from the Evant to Aielan and the Scripts.
His hands clenched at his sides before he forced them to relax.
“Tamaell,” he said as he approached, smiling. “You wished to see me?”
Thaedoren turned from his perusal of the city, but did not smile. “Chosen.”
Neither of them nodded or bowed to the other.
Thaedoren considered him a long moment, then stepped away from the edge and motioned Lotaern to accompany him as he began strolling through the various pathways of the garden. “I called you here to address a few concerns that have come to my attention regarding the Order.”
Lotaern’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he managed to keep his voice mild. “I see. Who brought these concerns to your attention?”
“A few of the Lords of the Evant.”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. He thought he could name at least one of tho
se lords. “What has the Order done that concerns the Evant?”
Thaedoren shot him a sideways glance, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Everything the Order does concerns the Evant, Chosen. Especially now that you have become a part of the Evant.”
“Of course, Tamaell. I meant, what is of concern to these particular lords?”
Thaedoren continued on for a few more slow steps. “They are concerned about the members of the Order of the Flame who are circulating among the temples in their House lands. Some feel that it is a show of force, a subtle threat. After careful consideration, I have to agree.”
Lotaern bridled, although his fear that Thaedoren knew of his alliance with Peloroun and Orraen relaxed. “Having the Flame move among the temples is certainly within my rights as Chosen of the Order and it has nothing to do with the Evant.”
“Having acolytes traveling on pilgrimages from temple to temple has nothing to do with the Evant. However, you cannot argue that the members of the Flame are simply acolytes. They are not. They are warriors, trained in the art of battle, with the power of Aielan’s Light behind them, as you have proven on the battlefield at the Escarpment and in the attacks of the sukrael and the Wraiths in the years since. As warriors—as members of the Order of Aielan’s Phalanx—they fall under my direction as Tamaell of the Evant, just as all of the House Phalanx are under my command when necessary. Are you saying that the Flame should not be treated as a military unit?”
“They are acolytes of the Order, learned in the Scripts, with Aielan’s Light behind them.”
Thaedoren shook his head. “You cannot have it both ways, Chosen. The Order of the Flame is either a Phalanx under the direction of the Evant, or they are acolytes of the Order and nothing more.”
Lotaern sensed the threat behind the words. The Flame gave the Order the aspect of a House. If the members of the Flame became mere acolytes, then the Order of Aielan and Lotaern himself would lose his standing within the Evant. He couldn’t afford to lose that now.
But if he agreed that the Flame acted as the Order’s Phalanx, Thaedoren would have the power to seize control of it in times of need.
Thaedoren had halted and was watching him. He suddenly realized he hadn’t answered quickly enough, that his response should have been instant.
He smiled, knew it was forced. “The members of the Order of the Flame are warriors, of course. Warriors who are ultimately under the direction of Aielan.”
Thaedoren’s expression did not change. It was an ambiguous response, but Lotaern could not read how the Tamaell had taken it. His only words were, “Very well. Keep that in mind during the opening of the Evant.”
Was there a hint of warning in his voice?
“Was there anything else, Tamaell?”
“No. You may leave.”
Lotaern had made it to the entrance to the garden when Thaedoren called after him. He halted in his tracks, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I have heard of other concerns from the Lords of the Evant regarding the Order, and the Chosen. Be careful of what you attempt to gain, Lotaern. Do not attempt to extend your influence too far.”
Lotaern didn’t answer, couldn’t answer through the sudden fear that seized him. Instead, he turned and bowed his head in acknowledgment before stalking through the door and into the uppermost tier of the palace. Two White Phalanx fell into step to either side behind him, but he barely noticed, his mind racing.
What did Thaedoren know? What could he possibly have learned from the other lords? Had Peloroun or Orraen revealed their plans? But that did not make sense. Both lords had been concerned over revealing themselves, and both of them had too much to gain by allying themselves with him. Peloroun had lost power with his support of the ill-fated traitor, Lord Khalaek. And Orraen was too impatient to await a rise in the Evant after replacing his father, even with his sister now bonded to the Tamaell as Tamaea.
No, neither Peloroun nor Orraen had betrayed him.
He forced his heart to calm, the constriction in his chest easing. Taking a few deep breaths, he reconsidered the Tamaell’s last words, turned them over in his head, searching for what had not been said. The longer he thought about them, the more relaxed he became. The accusation had been vague, without specifics. If Thaedoren had known something specific, especially something as volatile as what he had planned, the Tamaell would not have resorted to veiled threats. No, Thaedoren knew nothing.
But he was suspicious.
Lotaern and his escort had reached the corridor that separated the Tamaell’s private chambers from the rest of the palace, the two White Phalanx taking up positions to either side of the entrance as he passed through. Lotaern ignored them, searching the round room for Vaeren, his sandaled feet clopping against the massive marble floor. The caitan of the Flame, along with Petraen, were waiting against the far wall, watching the servants, Phalanx, and other clerks pass by with studied disinterest. Both straightened as soon as they saw the Chosen.
Vaeren picked up on his uneasiness instantly. “What did the Tamaell want, Chosen?”
Lotaern scowled. “He wanted to discuss the finer points of law regarding the Order of the Flame. I fear he intends to use it somehow at the opening of the Evant. But he hinted at knowing something more. He warned the Order against overstepping its bounds.”
“He has always been cautious with the Order, unwilling to allow us power, but more than willing to use the Flame for his own ends.”
“That will change,” Lotaern muttered. “If the Alvritshai hope to survive the Wraiths and the sukrael, it will have to change. Only the Order and Aielan’s Light can lead us out from under their shadow. Thaedoren, and the other Lords of the Evant, will understand that shortly.”
Peloroun sat behind his desk within his personal chambers in Caercaern, staring across it toward the Ionaen House Phalanx guardsman who stared back. Few knew that he had already arrived for the opening of the Evant. Most of the lords of the Houses would be arriving in the next week.
Some were already here.
The muscles of his face hardened as he thought of Lord Aeren, then relaxed. He had dealt with Aeren since before the Escarpment, although since then the lord had gained much influence in the Evant. His exposure of Khalaek as a traitor had been the impetus behind much of that.
But Aeren’s time would come.
Peloroun smiled. The nervous guardsman across from him winced.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you here, Iroen.”
The guardsman swallowed, but straightened in his seat. He did not seem comfortable being seated in his lord’s presence. His hands shifted from the arms of the polished oak chair to his legs and back again before settling there. “No, Lord Peloroun. I am Ionaen Phalanx. I serve you without question.”
“I see.”
Iroen’s words were more sincere than he knew, although he and Courranen had made certain that Iroen and his two fellow guardsmen would not remember why.
Peloroun regarded the guardsman for a moment, then abruptly stood. As he moved around his desk, he picked up the small blade he used to open missives, only half the length of his finger, its handle made of bone. It was not especially sharp—it was not meant to be—but it was sufficient for his purposes.
Iroen watched him as he circled the desk. The guardsman did not miss the retrieval of the knife, which made Peloroun wonder if perhaps he should use one of the other two guardsmen instead. He hated to waste a promising guard.
But no, Iroen was here now. It would take time to summon the others.
“I have a problem, Iroen. One that you can help me with. I need to speak with someone, but he is too far away to summon, so far, in fact, that it would take weeks to find him simply to deliver the summons.”
Iroen frowned. Peloroun saw it as he passed behind him, the guard’s head dipping forward in confusion. “I don’t understand. How can I help you with this, my lord?”
Peloroun leaned back against his desk on Iroen’s far side, n
ear enough he could have killed him with the letter opener before the guard could react if he’d wanted to.
“Do you recall the survey of the Provinces that we endured nearly twenty years ago, when I and three other Lords of the Evant traveled from Rendell in the north, along the coastal lands controlled by the humans, and then eastward from Portstown across the southern Provinces, through Temeritt, Borangst, and Yhnar?” When Iroen nodded, he continued. “You won’t remember, but while we were traveling from Temeritt to Yhnar, you and I and two other Ionaen House Phalanx left the main group, ostensibly to take a closer look at the Flats that separate the human lands from the Thalloran Wasteland. We met a friend there, on the Flats—the person I need to speak to actually. During that meeting, he left each of you with a… gift.”
Peloroun’s smile didn’t change, but the guard shifted uneasily. He held Peloroun’s gaze. “I don’t remember any of this.”
“I said you wouldn’t. But if you draw back the sleeve of your shirt, you will see what he left you.”
Iroen glanced toward the arm that Peloroun pointed to, resting on the edge of his seat. At Peloroun’s prodding, he slid the sleeve back to his elbow and turned his arm palm up, exposing the pale underside riddled with veins. Near the wrist, a small black mole stood out against the pale skin.
Except it wasn’t a mole.
Peloroun shifted away from the desk, his motion casual, although Iroen looked up at him, his confusion growing.
“I don’t understand—” he began.
Peloroun clamped his hand down on the guardsman’s forearm to hold it steady and jabbed the small knife into the black mark, felt it pierce skin and dig into the tendons of the wrist beneath. Iroen cried out in shock, jerked back, fury infusing his face, but Peloroun had already released his arm and stepped back. He moved around the desk, tossed the knife aside, a few drops of blood speckling the papers there, and seated himself carefully.
Leaves of Flame Page 26
