Leaves of Flame ch-2

by Benjamin Tate

  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 those 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, near 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.

  Iroen clutched his wounded wrist in one hand, anger twisting his features into a hard grimace that he fought to control, his breath coming in heaves. Through clenched teeth, he spat, “What did you do that for, my lord?”

  Peloroun raised his eyebrows in feigned shock. “I thought you served without question, Iroen?”

  The guardsman huffed a short breath, his glare his only answer.

  Movement caught Peloroun’s eye and his gaze dropped to Iroen’s arm, the sleeve still pulled back to the elbow. A thin line of blood had escaped from beneath the guardsman’s hand where he tried to staunch the flow, but that wasn’t what riveted Peloroun to his seat. The Ionaen lord felt the blood drain from his face, his features going slack. Iroen noticed and followed the direction of his gaze.

  From beneath the guard’s hand, black liquid, like ink, streamed down the length of his arm. But unlike the trail of blood, it spread beneath the skin.

  Iroen gasped and jerked back, letting go of his wrist as he flung his arm away from his body, as if he could dislodge the black fluid by shaking it off. His own blood spattered the desk, a drop hitting Peloroun’s cheek, causing him to flinch. But the lord didn’t move, didn’t raise a hand to brush the blood away. He couldn’t move, transfixed by what was happening to Iroen. The guard flailed his arm again, a cry escaping him, but the black fluid had already reached his elbow, had begun to work its way into his upper arm, snaking beneath the cover of the shirt.

  Iroen shot a panicked look at his lord, then gripped and ripped the sleeve of his shirt free. By the time the fabric gave, the blackness had seethed upward to his shoulder and appeared to be growing. Iroen lurched up from his chair, cried out again as Peloroun watched the ink spread across the guard’s chest, so dark it was visible beneath the white shirt. Iroen’s right hand pounded the area above his heart as he gasped, his breaths painful now, his face contorted with a struggle that Peloroun could not comprehend. His fingers seized the flesh over his heart, as if trying to dig into the cavity beneath where the blackness had pooled. Cords stood out on the guard’s neck as he arched backward, mouth open in a rictus of pain-

  Then Iroen stilled. He emitted a choked sound, his features going slack.…

  And he collapsed back into the chair beneath him. His head lolled, as if his neck had been broken. His arms fell into his lap. Blood stained his shirt from the cut in his wrist. Peloroun would have thought he was dead except that he could still see him breathing.

  The lord remained in his seat, frowning at his guardsman. He wasn’t certain he should move-wasn’t certain he could. Courranen had not told him what to expect when he released the piece of Shadow implanted in each of the guards, only that if there was a need for contact, to cut the black mark so that the darkness could reach the victim’s bloodstream.

  And from there, the heart.

  Peloroun eyed the black stain that he could see under the guard’s shirt. He shifted forward, wincing when his chair creaked, and realized his hands had gripped the arms of his own chair so hard they’d cramped. He forced them free, shook them out, his forearms aching from the strain.

  Then he stood.

  As he did so, Iroen’s body spasmed.

  Peloroun choked on his own breath, leaned forward onto his desk to regain his composure. As he drew in air, he noticed the black stain over Iroen’s heart had begun to move. Tendrils snaked out toward the guard’s arms and legs, a thicker tendril working its way up his neck. It split and curled around his mouth and nose beneath the skin, then each converged on the guard’s eyes.

  Peloroun saw the black liquid spill into the whites of Iroen’s eyes as if it were, indeed, ink. The guard’s body jerked again as the oil filled the whites completely.

  Iroen blinked once, twice… and sat up straight in his seat. He regarded Peloroun across the desk with eyes as black as night, traceries of the darkness beneath his skin like tattoos across his face, arms, chest, and legs.

  “You wished to speak with me?”


  The voice was not Iroen’s.

  It was Khalaek’s.

  Peloroun’s legs lost their strength, and he dropped heavily back into his seat. The same shock he had felt decades ago when he had gone to the Flats, uncertain of who would meet him, and finding Khalaek waiting shivered through his body again. It had been the only time he had seen the fallen lord since. Khalaek had looked the same as when he had been carried out into the churned-up plains at the edge of the Escarpment and given over to the human King Stephan, after being banished and exiled by Thaedoren and the Evant… except that his pale skin had been mottled with the same shadowy oil that had suffused Iroen. Khalaek had been accompanied by another of the sukrael-touched, another Alvritshai named Courranen, but Courranen deferred to Khalaek, standing a step behind the Lord of House Duvoraen.

  Peloroun had fallen to his knees when he’d seen him, the winds that blew incessantly and tasted of salt burning his face and parched lips. The fine-grained sand of the Flats had cut into his knees as he bowed his head and muttered, “Lord Khalaek.”

  Khalaek had frowned down at him, even as Peloroun’s escort of three guardsmen knelt in guarded consternation behind him. “Not Khalaek,” he’d said, his voice hard. “The Evant has banished me, have they not? I am no longer Lord of House Duvoraen. I am Khalaek-khai now.”

  Hearing Khalaek’s voice-the inflections, the tone-coming from Iroen’s mouth brought that meeting back so intensely Peloroun could taste the salt and feel the heat of the sun-baked earth beneath his knees. He licked his lips and tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  A look of annoyance crossed Iroen’s face, then the black eyes glanced around the room, coming back to rest on Peloroun. “Say what you have to say, Lord Peloroun. I have no time to waste. Events are escalating, and this connection will not last long.”