Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

  He glanced toward Azuka. “What?”

  “You grunted and smiled.”

  Quotl waved his hand. “It was nothing. Have the shamans completed the ritual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have them gather in the ritual tent as soon as it is erected. I want to meet with them before the clan chief calls me into his Gathering.”

  “Clear the table,” Tarramic ordered.

  As the aides—­all young Riders or those who were training to become Riders—­moved forward to remove the platters of food, used plates, and trays, the clan chief motioned toward Quotl.

  Setting aside his pipe and glaring at one of the aides who’d moved forward to remove it until the youth backed off, Quotl pulled the scepter of his office from his lap and stood, starting a chant in the ancient tongue as he began pacing the confines of the room. It was the largest chamber in the clan chief’s tent, the table surrounded by eleven dwarren Riders, all of them of significant families within the clan and the structure of the Riders. Three more aides remained behind as the last of the dinner was removed. Quotl shook the scepter along the four sacred lines to signify the gods of the Four Winds and closed off the chamber by arranging a pattern of feathers, grass, and a scattering of grain at the main entrance, then lit the brazier that hung from the center of the tent, tossing a few herbs and scented leaves onto the flames as he did so to summon Ilacqua.

  Then he turned to Tarramic. “The Four Winds protect us, and Ilacqua guides our words.”

  Tarramic nodded and motioned immediately to two of the aides as Quotl returned to his seat. “The map of Painted Sands. And the stones.”

  One aide pulled the roll of leather from a trunk set off to one side, while the other set a small, flat, wooden box at Tarramic’s right side, removing the lid to reveal an array of compartments, each containing polished colored stone. The map was rolled out and secured using four heavy chunks of onyx at each of the rounded corners.

  Everyone leaned forward to peer at the map. The lands of Painted Sands were worked into the leather, the straight line of the Andagua River cutting diagonally across the bottom left corner and stained a faint blue. Entrances to the warrens were marked with rounded impressions, the land scattered with three-­lined marks that looked like tufts of grass. Unusual features of the grasslands were marked as well, including a jagged cut of land to the east called the Break that marked a sudden change in the landscape, grasses giving way to the red rock and sands that gave the clan its name. The cliffs were nothing in comparison to the Cut that bordered Thousand Springs Clan lands, not even half as high nor as long, but in terms of strategic land formations it was practically all that the dwarren had to work with. It ran for a significant distance, the eastern plains rising toward its base in a gentle curved slope that steepened until it hit the striated rock of the cliff face. Sometime in the distant past, a portion of the cliffs had given way, collapsing them into the plains beyond, creating a natural ramp to the upper plains to the west, where Tarramic and the Thousand Springs Clan now camped, although still two days distant.

  Tarramic pointed toward the warren entrance west of the jagged line of the Break and the wide swath of land that interrupted it. “The Cochen has chosen this entrance as our retreat, if retreat becomes necessary. The bulk of our supplies will remain here, with only minimal supplies taken to our main encampment here.” He pointed to a spot at the top of the remains of the massive landslide. He removed twelve blue-­colored stones from the box at his side and set them down there, then turned to Quotl. “Where are the other clans, according to your Seeing?”

  Quotl gestured for the markers. “The Seeing was done nearly five hours ago, but at that time the Cochen and his forces were approximately here, and Corranu was here, although I assume that his forces will join ours before we arrive at the Break. Claw Lake had emerged here.” He set red-­and-­white-­colored stones to signify the Cochen’s forces, green for Corranu, and yellow for Claw Lake. “The others I can only assume are now where the Cochen ordered them within the warrens.”

  Tarramic nodded, his attention already on his eldest son. “Tumak, what did the scouts report?”

  Quotl let the report fade into the background as he sucked on the end of his pipe and blew the smoke toward the brazier above, eyes on the map. Pieces shifted around as the dwarren Riders began talking strategy. The idea became obvious when seen on the map rather than the palm of his hand. The landslide, though wide, would provide the only feasible means for the Wraith army to reach the upper plains of Painted Sands, unless they were willing to add over a week to their march by traveling northward to where the Break ended and the grasslands merged with the red sands to the west. They could also travel southward, although the Break ended abruptly in a jumble of rock and stone debris, the land riddled with cracks and crevices, making the movement of such a large army nearly impossible.

  And the army must be large, if his Seeing had been correct. The dwarren outnumbered them, but it was still a significant force. Larger than the armies that had clashed on the eastern plains before the Accord. Even at the Cut, the dwarren armies had numbered nearly half of what had been gathered here.

  But that had been over five generations ago. The dwarren had multiplied since then. They were once again nearing what their strength had been before the arrival of the Alvritshai and the humans on the plains. The wars with those two races had been devastating.

  He shook his head and frowned at himself, focusing on the map again. Tarramic had positioned the Thousand Springs and Painted Sands forces along the breadth of the base of the landslide, Claw Lake and Shadow Moon along the heights to either side. The northern edge of the Break angled mostly east-­west, following the slide and providing Claw Lake with the opportunity to cover a retreat of the forces on the ground and hit the army with arrows and spears from above. Shadow Moon would do the same from the southern cliffs, but they would be at a disadvantage since the Break ran more north-­south along that ridge. Instead, they would provide cover for the Cochen, Red Sea, and Broken Waters, who would come up from the south on the Wraith army’s flank.

  As the dwarren Riders argued about the details—­minutia Quotl didn’t think would matter in the final ­outcome—­he contemplated the patterns in the shifting stones, seeking the one that would keep Ilacqua’s and the Four Winds’ favor. He breathed in the smoke from his pipe and the scents he’d thrown into the brazier, felt his body thrumming in response. The stones shifted yet again, Tarramic rearranging them as he barked at his son, and Quotl frowned. The positioning was close, the alignment nearly there. If he factored in the location of Silver Grass, and if he placed the shamans and the trettarus archers with the wood gifted to them by the forest here and here—­

  He cried out, his exclamation cutting the arguments around the table off as sharply as any sword could have. All of the dwarren Riders turned to face him and he squinted at them in return, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. He let the silence hold, then stuck the end of his pipe in his mouth and inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke before using the end of the pipe to point to the map.

  “You are almost there,” he said, letting his voice rumble. “However, I feel that the gods will favor the following more.” Using the stem of his pipe, he pushed a few of the stones into new positions. “The trettarus should be positioned here and here, in small groups so they can move about more easily and select their targets with precision. We do not have many of the forest’s gifts. They must be used sparingly.”

  The younger Riders remained silent, turning their attention to Tarramic, who concentrated on the new arrangement with a creased brow, then met Quotl’s gaze through the haze of smoke.

  “You say the gods favor this?”

  Quotl thought about the portent of the storm, of what it truly foretold, what neither he nor Azuka had been able to voice, had only been able to skirt. But what he had said to Azuka was true: there was nothing any of them could do to challenge it.

  He could only arra
nge matters to minimize the damage.

  He nodded.

  Tarramic frowned down at the map. Quotl could sense that a few of the Riders did not agree with him, but their opinions did not matter. He knew Tarramic would heed his advice. He was the head shaman, and Tarramic always listened to the gods.

  The clan chief finally looked up and muttered, “So be it.”

  Moiran stood on the balcony overlooking the open courtyard before the manse, her arms crossed over her chest. In the distance to the east, gray storm clouds loomed, the faint rumble of thunder echoing down through the hills to the lake, although she had yet to see any flashes of lightning. The wind tasted of rain, damp and metallic, and the leaves of the trees that surrounded the courtyard were turned up, exposing their pale undersides to the late spring sunlight.

  In counterpoint to the thunder, the clash of weapons rose from the yard below, punctuated by the sharp commands of Fedaureon and Mattalaen, the caitan who had trained Fedaureon and a significant portion of the young men who’d joined the Phalanx at the same time. Daevon, her son’s Protector stood to one side, watching intently.

  Now, the caitan drilled them all, the group paired off on the stone cobbles below, swords flashing as they grunted and strove to break through each others’ guard. Moiran kept her eyes on her son. Within a week of Aeren’s warning about the ascension of the Order as a House within the Evant, Fedaureon had the Phalanx on alert, the border patrols increased and the Phalanx here within the House doubled. A week after that, he’d ordered an escalation of the training, so that now the Phalanx within Artillien practiced at least twice a day. Fedaureon participated in nearly all of them. He had always been more military-­minded than Aeren, more skilled with the blade and the bow and more adept at military strategy. His anger had only risen the longer the members of the Order of the Flame remained within House lands, his aggression obvious on the training ground below.

  Moiran frowned. So far, he had taken his rage out on the practice field. Messengers from Caercaern had arrived at the local temple ten days ago, supposedly relaying the edict of the Evant that all members of the Flame within Rhyssal House lands were to return to the Sanctuary. She had expected them to depart within two days. They hadn’t. Fedaureon had sent a servant down to the temple to ask whether the acolytes required any assistance. Their offer had been flatly refused. The members of the Flame had continued to preach at the daily rituals, without any sign they intended to depart Artillien as ordered.

  The next message had been less polite, and had been greeted with total silence, the acolytes of the Order not even allowing the servant into the temple to deliver the message personally to the members of the Flame present. The acolytes had denied the servant coldly, then closed the temple door in her face.

  That had been two day ago. The acolytes and the Order were skirting dangerously close to the edge of polite formality. Based on the ferocity of Fedaureon’s attacks on his opponents in the courtyard below, they’d already surpassed the thin edge of his patience. In fact, the rest of those fighting had fallen back to watch Fedaureon spar with a lone attacker.

  But that was not what had brought Moiran to the balcony. No. She had sought out Fedaureon for an entirely different matter.

  Below, Fedaureon cried out, blade cutting in sharply, his opponent parrying the attack, already worn down. Her son shoved the block aside viciously, stepped into the opening, and brought his elbow up into his opponent’s face, pulling the blow. It still retained enough force to snap the Phalanx guard’s head back and send him reeling to the ground. Mattalaen barked an end to the match and Fedaureon growled, sword already raised for what would have been a killing blow. For a moment, Moiran wasn’t certain her son would heed his caitan, but then the fierce expression dropped from Fedaureon’s face and he grinned, sword lowered as he reached down with his free hand to help his opponent up from the ground.

  They dusted off, Mattalaen making some kind of comment regarding the match to each privately before nodding toward where Moiran stood watching. Her son glanced ­toward her, then sheathed his sword and moved toward the manse’s entrance, Daevon falling in at his side.

  Moiran stepped away from the balcony as Mattalaen picked two more men from the ranks and paired them off. She moved into the inner room and took a seat, waiting.

  Fedaureon arrived ten minutes later, still sweaty from the fighting, but he’d paused long enough to remove his outermost armor.

  “What is it?” he demanded as soon as he entered. His face was flushed and his breath shortened.

  She raised an eyebrow and glanced toward Daevon.

  “Fedaureon,” the Protector said, his voice level but full of warning.

  Her son grimaced, but then caught her demeanor and the impatience that riddled his shoulders and face vanished. He had the grace to appear abashed. “I apologize, Mother. You wished to speak to me?”

  Moiran motioned toward the seat across from her. A low table stood between the two chairs, a stack of letters close to her left hand, a platter of cheese and a decanter of wine on her right. She began to pour him a glass as he settled into the chair, coughing slightly as he tried to calm his breathing. His mind was still on the practice field below, though.

  “I think I have discovered who Lotaern’s allies are within the Evant,” she said.

  Fedaureon stilled, suddenly attentive. “Who? Father has been trying to figure it out for weeks! It’s all that he talks about in his letters.”

  “I know.”

  “Then how have you figured it out? We don’t have access to the Evant. We can’t see who’s dealing with whom, we only have Father’s letters to go by.”

  Moiran smiled, suppressing the motherly urge to say she had her ways. “I used the Ilvaeren.”

  Fedaureon fell silent, eyeing her with a frown. Daevon did the same from behind. She handed her son his wine and waited, attempting to still the trembling of her hands. She had never used the Ilvaeren in this way, had never even considered it until two weeks ago, when she realized that some of her routine requests with the Houses she normally traded with were being denied. The refusals had been annoying to begin with, but then she’d begun to sense a pattern.

  She wasn’t certain what she’d found was substantial enough to support her claims. She’d spent the last two days trying to organize it and convince herself, before finally sighing and deciding to present it to her son.

  And then there was the other issue: the Ilvaeren did not interfere in the Evant. Women were not supposed to dabble in the political field at all. At least in theory.

  “I don’t understand,” Fedaureon said, taking a sip of wine before setting the glass aside. “What do you mean you used the Ilvaeren?”

  She ignored the guarded doubt that weighed down his words.

  “It began over a month ago, although I didn’t notice it at the time. I received this letter from Lady Yssabo of House Redlien. Every year, we purchase a supply of winter barley from Redlien. This year, Vivaen Licaeta bought out not only Redlien’s barley, but their flax as well. I thought it odd at the time, but merely sought out barley from House Uslaen and Ionaen, both of which had some to spare. However, I began running into similar issues with other Houses for other commodities—­cloth from Nuant, rice from Baene, even wood from Licaeta and Uslaen.” She’d handed Fedaureon the letter from Yssabo as she spoke, but now she laid out additional letters across the width of the table from the other Houses. “I have never experienced this much trouble obtaining supplies from our fellow Houses in my term here as the Lady of House Rhyssal, nor as the Tamaea of Resue.

  “And then I began to realize that the majority of the commodities were being bought up by only a few of the Houses, in particular Licaeta and Ionaen, although Uslaen appears to have begun buying similar supplies lately.”

  “Perhaps they are simply short this year, their crops not as plentiful as they had hoped.”

  Moiran hesitated at the interruption, one hand clenching in her lap before she forced it to relax.
She nodded. “I thought so as well. So I began taking a closer look.” She gathered up the letters she’d already presented and set them aside. New pages replaced the first, although these were written in Moiran’s hand. “I started an accounting of all of the supplies that I was aware of through the Ilvaeren. This isn’t an exact accounting, since no House has the right to request the trade books of any other House, but even so.… Look how much grain Licaeta has purchased in the last few months.”

  Fedaureon, Lady Yssabo’s letter still in one hand, leaned forward and regarded the page Moiran indicated. He stilled, then motioned Daevon forward, the Protector taking that as tacit permission to look as well. Moiran didn’t protest; she knew Daevon well enough to believe that he would support her.

  “That’s enough grain to feed Rhyssal for over a year,” Fedaureon said.

  “Nearly a year and a half. Why would they need so much grain? Why does House Ionaen need so much wood? Or Uslaen so much iron from Nuant?”

  Fedaureon leaned back, glanced toward Daevon.

  The Protector’s eyebrows rose. “It is a significant amount of resources. One House should not need so much of a single material.”

  Fedaureon nodded, his attention returning to Moiran. “What do you think?”

  She drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I think that Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen are preparing for… something significant. I believe they are stocking up on food and other supplies.”

  “ ‘Something significant,’ ” Fedaureon said. “Such as what? And how does this connect to the Chosen and the Order of Aielan?”

  “I don’t know. But none of those Houses has ever done anything without forethought. And all of those Houses have opposed us in the past.”

  Fedaureon was silent for a long moment, then abruptly leaned forward, tossing Yssabo’s letter onto the table. “It’s not enough.”

  Moiran stiffened, anger sparking in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that it’s not enough. Father can’t take this before the Evant. What if Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen have a legitimate reason for purchasing all of these supplies, a reason we are unaware of?”