Leaves of Flame

by Benjamin Tate

The white fire of Aielan’s Light leaped from Siobhaen’s hands in an arc, burning into the outer ring of sukrael instantly, setting them afire. Their shrieks filled the blue-­lit chamber as Siobhaen pushed the fire outward, the Shadows twisting and writhing as they tried to escape. Eraeth had an arrow nocked and ready to shoot, sight trained along its length as he swung it back and forth, searching for any of the sukrael that might break free, but there was no need. Siobhaen could feel them through the fire as it seethed through her, knew where to direct the tendrils of flame. They were like voids in the living world around her, pits of emptiness.

  She filled those pits with fire.

  There were over twenty of the sukrael left and they all died within the space of ten heartbeats. Their black bodies flapped in the white furnace that Siobhaen called forth, burned to embers as the Light flowed through her. She found herself murmuring prayers to Aielan, litanies from her youth coming to her lips without thought. She prayed to her ancestors, to the flames beneath Caercaern, to the fire she drew upon now, and when the last Shadow had ceased to exist she felt that fire taper off and die within her.

  Weakness shuddered through her and she collapsed to her knees, then back onto her heels.

  “Siobhaen!”

  She turned toward Eraeth’s voice, removed from her body, hollowed out and burned to a cinder. She tried to smile in reassurance. “It came too easy,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I couldn’t control it.”

  “You controlled it enough to kill the sukrael.”

  She shook her head. He didn’t understand. “I could guide it, but I couldn’t control its power. It was too much. It burned me out.”

  She could tell by his scrunched up look that he still didn’t understand.

  Then movement caught her eye. Movement on the far side of the Well.

  Shaeveran stood at the water’s edge, arms raised, staff in one hand, but his eyes were closed, his face tense with ­concentration. To her burnt-­out senses, he appeared to be throbbing, as if he were greater than he appeared, filled to bursting. The bluish light of the Well washed over him, casting him in strange shadows.

  But the movement came from behind him and to one side.

  “Eraeth,” Siobhaen said in horror.

  The Protector spun at the warning in her voice, bow already rising, string creaking as he drew the arrow back, fingers near his ear. But the Wraith had already risen, had already slipped behind the oblivious Shaeveran.

  The human’s eyes flickered. His mouth moved, as if he were speaking.

  Siobhaen couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to, too drained by Aielan’s Light. But she could still talk.

  She drew in a deep breath and screamed, “Shaeveran! Behind you!”

  And then the tip of a blade burst from Shaeveran’s chest. He arched back, but the Wraith’s hand clamped onto his shoulder and held him as the blade twisted and the Wraith murmured something in Shaeveran’s ear.

  With a jerk, the Wraith withdrew the blade and let Shaeveran fall to the side.

  Siobhaen couldn’t breathe. Her chest had constricted, her throat locked shut, mouth open. Horror tingled through her body, paralyzing her.

  But not Eraeth.

  She heard the twang of the bowstring, saw the first arrow streaking across the now completely full Well, the shaft shimmering with light from the water beneath. She felt it sink into the Wraith’s chest as if it had struck her own instead. She jerked, drawing air through the constriction, something painful tearing deep inside. A second and third arrow were already speeding across the Well after the first, the sound of the bow somehow amplified in her ears. The Wraith’s body had twisted, the force of the first shaft throwing him back. The second arrow hit him high in the shoulder, kicking him in the opposite direction, the third taking him in the throat.

  The fourth took him in the eye.

  He fell, Siobhaen so attuned to the chamber she heard his clothes rustle, heard the thud of the body hit the stone. Then Eraeth’s hands were under her armpits, heaving her up and slinging one arm across his shoulders so he could support her. She instinctively pulled away, not wanting his help, disgusted at the presumption, but when she dragged her feet under her, they would not support her weight.

  “Come on,” Eraeth growled. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay down.” He began hauling her around the edge of the Well, heading toward the bodies. She noted he unconsciously veered around the blackened ash where the sukrael had died.

  “He isn’t dead?” she asked, her voice dry and ragged.

  “No.”

  Stunned, she let Eraeth carry her for a moment, then began struggling to regain her footing, her legs tingling as the bloodflow returned to them. She hissed at the sensation, but by the time they’d reached Shaeveran’s side, she could stand on her own.

  Eraeth let her go and dropped down beside Shaeveran, rolling him onto his back.

  Siobhaen sucked air through her teeth.

  The hole in Shaeveran’s chest still leaked blood, a large pool of it already surrounding his body, his clothes plastered to his side, his hair matted with it. More blood than Siobhaen had ever seen. Some of it had reached the edge of the Well, curling red-­black in the water before dispersing. Shaeveran’s face was ashen, his hands pale, his lips blue. And yet he breathed. If she hadn’t seen his chest moving, she would have known by the bubbles of blood that formed at the hole in his chest. But his breathing was slow, perhaps one breath for every three of Siobhaen’s.

  “Is he alive?” she asked.

  Eraeth gave her a scathing look. “Of course.”

  Siobhaen tensed at the derision, but Eraeth had already dismissed her, was digging through his satchel. He pulled out one of the waterskins, uncapped it, and upended the water onto the ground.

  Siobhaen lurched forward. “What are you doing? We need that! We’re in the middle of a desert!”

  He thrust the skin into her hands. “Fill this with water from the Source as best you can. He may want it when he awakens. Don’t touch the water. Don’t even touch the waterskin where it gets wet. And for Aielan’s sake, don’t drink any of it.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed him, turning back to Shaeveran instead, ripping the bloody shirt apart over the wound and beginning to clean it, not being gentle. As soon as he cleared it, the wound filled with fresh blood. Dark blood, rich and vital. Eraeth swore and continued working, motions frantic.

  Siobhaen shuddered and turned away. Shaeveran had told her he couldn’t die, but she hadn’t believed it until now. He shouldn’t still be alive. Any Alvritshai with a wound like that would have died before he hit the floor.

  She gripped the waterskin in her hands, then made her way to the Well, stumbling only once on her weakened legs before kneeling. She made to dip the entire skin into the water, then remembered what Eraeth had said. Gritting her teeth, she held the skin along one edge and dipped the mouth beneath the smooth surface, the Well still pulsing with bluish light. Air bubbles escaped and rose to the surface, but she couldn’t get much of the Lifeblood into the skin, not without reaching into the water.

  She tried a few more times, then swore and pulled the skin from the Well, holding it as if it were made of glass, letting the liquid drip down one side. She could feel the power of the Lifeblood, as if she held her hand out to a fire. It smelled of earth and loam.

  When she turned back, she caught sight of the Wraith.

  He’d fallen on his back, the four arrows jutting up from his body—­chest, shoulder, throat, and eye. She grimaced at the last as she moved to stand over him. The sword that he’d thrust through Shaeveran’s body lay next to his limp hand, slick with blood. She kicked it farther away, afraid to touch it. Then she knelt down beside the body.

  Unlike Shaeveran, the Wraith’s skin roiled with darkness, like ink. Blood stained his clothes as well, seeping from around the strange wooden arrows. His chest rose and fell in the same slackened pace as Shaeveran’s, but somehow it seemed more unnatural to Siobhaen. She reache
d her free hand toward the end of the shaft that had sunk into the Wraith’s eye socket, but couldn’t bring herself to touch it.

  She stood abruptly, spitting a vitriolic curse at the body, then hurried back to Eraeth’s side.

  “The Wraith isn’t dead,” she reported. “He’s still breathing. Even with that arrow through the eye.”

  “It will take more than an arrow to kill them, even one given to us by the Ostraell. Be thankful that it’s hurt him enough to knock him unconscious.” Eraeth stood, staring down at where he’d bandaged Shaeveran’s chest, the cloth over the wound already stained red. He glanced toward the Well, then Siobhaen, narrowing his eyes. “We need to get him out of here.”

  “What about the Source?”

  “Without Colin, there’s nothing more we can do. And I don’t want to be around when the Wraith wakes.”

  “But—­” Siobhaen turned to stare at the Well, at the bluish light that was beginning to dim.

  Eraeth gripped her shoulder. “We won’t go far. We’ find someplace in the city to rest until he heals enough to tell us what needs to be done.”

  “Can anything be done now?”

  Siobhaen’s heart lurched with pain at the grim expression that flickered across Eraeth’s face. Despair washed through her and she suddenly wondered if events would have turned out differently if she had turned on Vaeren before they had reached the Well in the northern wastes, if she hadn’t wavered between her duty to the Sanctuary and Lotaern and her duty to Aeilan’s Light and what she’d felt in her soul was right.

  The thought that they would have, that Shaeveran would not be lying at her feet, his heart’s blood staining the stone beneath them, sickened her.

  Eraeth squeezed her shoulder, then glanced down at the waterskin she clutched in one hand. It was still damp with the Lifeblood.

  He snatched up his satchel and opened it. Siobhaen dropped the skin inside and he cinched it closed and threw it over his shoulder. He motioned toward Shaeveran. “We have to move. Now. Help me with him.”

  They each took one of Shaeveran’s arms beneath a shoulder, the human surprisingly light, and began dragging him up the steps away from the Source toward one of the openings that led to the outskirts of the building. Behind, the bluish light of the Well continued to recede, night reclaiming the broken dome’s interior.

  At the top of the steps, they paused to look back, the water of the Source placid, the light within as faint as moonlight now, washing the stone debris and the cracked walls of the chamber. The Wraith’s body lay still and shadowed.

  Siobahen’s stomach suddenly clenched and she turned toward Eraeth, Shaeveran’s body between them, head sagging forward. “What about the dwarren? And the humans to the south? What about the Seasonal Trees?”

  The same pained, grim look flashed through Eraeth’s eyes.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Is that the last of the Cochen’s forces?” Quotl asked. His voice still sounded odd to his ears, throbbing deep in his chest, and many of the dwarren who rode past gave him strange looks. Nearly all of them reached for the totems woven into their beards, some muttering prayers and raising them to their mouths to be kissed. Even those wounded, covered in blood and battle-­weary, paused a moment before being ushered on by the shamans who tended them.

  Quotl tried to ignore them, as he had ignored the reactions of Azuka and the others on the battlefield. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to brush the looks aside.

  Azuka nodded. “The last of those in the main group have entered the cavern, including the Cochen, the clan chiefs, and the Archon.” Azuka shot him a sidelong look as he mentioned the Archon, which Quotl also chose to ignore.

  “Then seal the warren.”

  Azuka opened his mouth to protest—­the order should have come from the Archon or the Cochen—­but stopped himself, casting another glance at Quotl before nodding and kneeing his gaezel forward through the throng of dwarren toward the main entrance. Quotl remained behind, his gaze sweeping over those that filled the wide tunnel without really seeing them. A sense of inevitability enfolded him, numbed him. The power that had suffused him on the battlefield had waned, but his connection to it had not broken. It had merely subsided into the background.

  He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand what it meant, but he was beginning to think it was more than simple chance. He’d overheard some of the rumors that were already threading their way through the dwarren ranks. Whispers that he’d been touched by the gods, that Ilacqua worked through him, even that he’d become a god himself.

  He’d snorted in contempt at that last. But it was a troubled snort.

  From far down the tunnel, he heard a rumble of stone that escalated and grew. He reached out to touch the wall beside him, his gaezel fidgeting beneath his weight as it felt the rock trembling. The roar of falling rubble increased, then peaked. As it began to fade, a cloud of dust and grit suddenly engulfed the entire corridor, moving swiftly past all of the gathered dwarren, the Riders crying out in alarm and breaking into fits of coughing. Torches guttered in the gust of air, a few sputtering out. Gaezels shifted restlessly. Quotl held his breath as long as he could, then sucked in a lungful of air, tasting the dry dust of stone in the back of his throat a moment before his lungs protested and he began coughing as well. As soon as the cloud of grit passed, it began to settle, everyone covered in a light gray-­white film. Riders brushed themselves off and the hacking and wheezing faded.

  “Who ordered the collapse?”

  Quotl winced at the outcry, the voice instantly recognizable, a sour taste twisting his mouth into a grimace. He straightened, ran a hand down his dust-­coated face, and prayed, wishing fervently for his pipe.

  “I did,” he said, raising his voice to be heard even though the Riders that were within range had fallen silent. “I called for the collapse of the entrance.”

  He turned to face the Archon.

  On the far side of the tunnel, at least a hundred strides away, Kimannen spun in his seat, face contorted in rage. He stood with the Cochen, the clan chief covered in blood, his arm held out to the ministrations of one of Red Sea’s shamans. Two of the other clan chiefs—­Corranu of Painted Sands and Asazi of Broken Waters—­flanked the Cochen and the Archon, also wounded.

  “The sealing of the warren is the Archon’s responsibility,” Kimannen spat. He dragged his gaezel around and headed toward Quotl, the Riders between parting before him, their gazes flickering back and forth between the two.

  Quotl stiffened, reaching forward to still his gaezel when it snorted in defiance. “You were preoccupied with the Cochen and his wounds, although I see that one of your shamans has seen to them.”

  Kimannen glared at the mild rebuke, halting a short distance away. “You overstep your bounds, Quotl. You always have.”

  At the threat that underlay the words, the Riders surrounding Kimannen stirred, a grumble of discontent rumbling forth. The Archon did not appear to notice.

  Quotl’s eyes narrowed. “Would you have left the warren open?”

  “Of course not. We cannot allow the Wraith army access to the tunnels, to the Confluence.”

  “Then I have merely anticipated your orders.”

  “That is not the point!” the Archon shouted, trembling slightly. But when the murmur of dissent rippled among the Riders at his tone, he shot dark looks to either side. Confusion passed across his face, and he drew his gaezel back at the looks the dwarren were giving him, looks as dark as those he’d flung at Quotl.

  He returned to face Quotl, the glare becoming a glower of hatred, of resentment.

  He edged his gaezel closer, so that they stood side to side. His features smoothed, the anger draining away, although this close Quotl could still see it simmering deep in the Archon’s eyes. He drew himself up to his full height and said, “You wielded the power of Ilacqua I sent you well on the battlefield today. I can feel it inside of you still. I see now that I was mistaken. It was Ilacqua who guided yo
u in sealing the warren behind us, yes? As it was Ilacqua, through me, who guided you at the Break?”

  All eyes were on Quotl. Doubt had crept into the murmurs of dissent from the Riders, doubt Quotl knew he could crush with a few words. He could challenge Kimannen here and now, seize the Archon’s position before all of those gathered. It was not how the Archon was chosen, but this was the Turning. The world was slipping toward chaos, and perhaps that was the best reason to wrest control from Kimannen. They needed a strong Archon now more than ever.

  But they also needed stability, especially among the clans. Kimannen hadn’t kept control for so long because he was powerless. He had allies among the clans, knew how to manipulate them to get what he wanted. Most of the shamans knew that a few were more powerful than Kimannen when it came to Ilacqua’s blessings, knew that Kimannen’s personal communion with the gods had been slipping recently. But they couldn’t afford a dispute among the shamans at this time. Not after the battle.

  Quotl allowed himself to relax, his hand moving to calm the gaezel he rode. “Ilacqua guides me in all things, Kimannen, here and on the battlefield.”

  Kimannen’s nostrils flared at the use of his name, rather than his title, but he answered, “As I suspected.” His gaze raked those watching. “The warren is sealed by Ilacqua’s will! Prepare to depart!”

  Then, attention back on Quotl, leaning forward, so that only Quotl would hear, he said coldly, “You are not the Archon.”

  He jerked his gaezel’s head around and headed back ­toward the Cochen. Oraju and the other clan chiefs had remained silent, but watchful. Corranu caught Quotl’s attention and nodded, the motion subtle but laden with respect. Oraju’s expression was impossible to read.

  As soon as Kimannen turned his back, Quotl sighed. Tension in his shoulders drained away.

  “Kimannen did not send you Ilacqua’s strength on the battlefield,” Azuka said from behind him.

  Quotl started. He hadn’t heard the shaman return. He frowned at him, as if his inattention had been Azuka’s fault. “Who is to say? The Archon was distant. Perhaps he appealed to Ilacqua to aid us.”