Leaves of Flame ch-2 Read online

  Colin bowed his head slightly. “I have come up with another option. But it will require the help of the Order of Aielan.”

  Aeren straightened. “Lotaern has used the Order to gain power within the Evant, more power than I am comfortable with at the moment. He has used the threat of the Shadows and the Wraiths, and the fears of the lords and the Alvritshai, to consolidate his control. The Order has essentially risen to the level of a House. I do not think that allowing him control over something more-”

  “I think you’ll find that this may limit his control, rather than extend it. At least regarding the Shadows and the Wraiths. I cannot say how it will affect his political power within the Evant. That is … an Alvritshai concern.”

  Aeren frowned. “What is this other option?”

  Colin’s free hand moved to the satchel he carried at his side. “A way to counter the effects of the awakened Wells, to limit the range of the Shadows … and the Wraiths to an extent. A way to protect the Alvritshai from their threat.”

  Aeren stared at the satchel. He found it hard to believe that something that could save the Alvritshai from the Shadows and the Wraiths could be contained in such a small case.

  He caught Colin’s gaze. “How?”

  Colin raised his head enough he could see through the heavy folds of his hood as he, Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest of the Rhyssal House Phalanx passed through the massive wooden doors of the inner chamber of the great Hall at the center of Caercaern’s widest marketplace. He could see little through the opening of the cowl, had entirely missed the thick colonnades of the Hall and the magnificent stone carvings on the outside walls depicting Alvritshai in their daily labors and religious observances. But the interior was as grand. The Tamaell’s platform stood on the far side of a wide area surrounded by circular arrays of desks and seats and tiered stairs leading down to a central oval. Alvritshai lords and their attendant guards, clerks, and aides filled the stairs, their conversations echoing loudly in the huge vaulted ceiling overhead. The desks were draped in thick folds of cloth of various colors, representing each of the Houses of the Evant, those colors mirrored in the banners arrayed against the rounded walls of the chamber and in the formal dress of everyone present.

  Eraeth and Aeren led the Rhyssal House party down the stairs to the deep-blue-and-red-shrouded desk. Colin felt the eyes of the attendant lords register Aeren’s arrival … and then fall on the shrouded figure carrying a staff and satchel behind him. Beneath the folds of the cowl, he heard the sudden lull in conversation, saw the pinched frowns that flashed briefly across faces before gazes shot toward Aeren, toward the empty throne that graced the Tamaell’s platform, then to their fellow lords to gauge reactions. Conversations resumed as Aeren reached his own seat and settled in, motioning Colin to a place on his left, Eraeth taking up position on his right. A flurry of activity ensued, as pages were sent to relay messages throughout the room.

  Colin glanced around, taking note of the lords he recognized and a few he didn’t. The fallout from Lord Khalaek’s betrayal and murder of Tamaell Fedorem had been swift, the declaration that House Duvoraen had fallen occurring on the battlefield at the Escarpment after Khalaek had been banished and handed over to King Stephan and subsequently executed. House Uslaen had risen in its place, led by Lord Saetor, who stood near his white-and-gold-shrouded desk, back rigid. He looked uncomfortable among his fellow lords, even after forty years. Younger, and raised and trained to be part of the Phalanx, his ascension into the Evant had been unexpected, an honor placed upon him for his part in the battle at the Escarpment and his handling of Lord Khalaek’s forces after the lord had been removed and his Phalanx placed under Saetor’s command. The transition hadn’t been entirely smooth-there were those loyal to Khalaek who had abandoned the House as Saetor seized control-but after Khalaek’s betrayal had been exposed, backed by both Thaedoren and Lotaern’s word, it had gone as smoothly as could be expected.

  Saetor watched Colin intently, ignoring the flurry of messages that had accumulated on his desk. He was so focused that Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked away, even though he knew Saetor could not see beneath his cowl.

  His gaze fell on the other unknown lord, Orraen Licaeta, the son of Vaersoom, who had ascended in his father’s place as the Lord of House Licaeta soon after the Escarpment, when Vaersoom had succumbed to the wounds received during the battle. Orraen was the firstborn and, unlike Aeren, had been trained to take his father’s place since the day he was born. Aeren’s elder brother had been groomed for the role Aeren now held. When he had been killed over the course of the war for the plains, Aeren had been forced to leave his studies as acolyte in the Order of Aielan and take control of his House.

  Orraen reminded Colin of Khalaek. His posture was relaxed, his genial smile unforced as he moved among the gathering of the Evant, talking to lords and aides and, on occasion, their Phalanx guardsmen. Yet the hardness around his eyes never abated, and his actions-every gesture, every movement-were far too smooth, too slick and practiced. He appeared to have dismissed Colin, his back turned toward Aeren as he conversed with Lord Jydell, even laughing at something his fellow lord said. Jydell cast Aeren a contemplative look, and appeared at ease, but the way one hand twisted the sleeve of his shirt and his occasional glance toward Colin’s shrouded figure revealed his concern.

  Behind Orraen and Jydell, a few levels up the stairs, stood Lotaern, Chosen of the Order of Aielan. As if sensing Colin’s gaze, even from beneath the hood, the Chosen nodded in acknowledgment, as if he knew who hid behind the cowl. And perhaps he did.

  Before Colin had a chance to assess the rest of the lords, members of the White Phalanx filed into the room. Four appeared on the platform itself, arranging themselves around the main throne and the two smaller thrones set a pace back to either side. The rest filed in beneath the platform, carrying standards or spears, moving slowly, with formal, deliberate steps. The surrounding lords and their entourages began filtering toward their seats, conversations falling silent.

  The White Phalanx halted, standing stock-still, waiting until the room had quieted before the two carrying the spears raised them and pounded their metal bases into the marble floor. The sound cracked through the chamber, and Colin started, even though he’d been expecting it. The procedure for the Tamaell’s arrival had changed subtly since Colin had last attended the Evant, but the feel of the chamber-the simmering tension of predator and prey-was the same.

  “Tamaell Thaedoren Ormae Resue,” one of the standard-bearers announced.

  Everyone in attendance stood as Thaedoren emerged onto the platform, followed by his mother, Moiran, and his brother, Daedelan. Colin’s eyebrows rose. Both Thaedoren and Daedelan were dressed in the full regalia of the White Phalanx, including bracers on their arms and armor beneath the silky red-and-white folds of their House shirts. Daedelan had darker hair than Thaedoren, like his mother’s, but even from this distance Colin could see they both had their father’s green eyes. Both were tall and solidly built, although Daedelan was obviously younger, even with his face set in a serious expression. Moiran’s gaze swept the room, lingering on no one, not even Aeren, but seeing all. She wore a dress that hinted at armor, the folds and cut more severe and serious than usual. No one spoke, but a rustle eased around the room as the rest noticed as well. Eraeth shot Aeren a questioning look, but Aeren merely shrugged.

  Obviously, Thaedoren had prepared since they’d met with him that morning.

  “Be seated,” Thaedoren said, but remained standing as the chamber filled with the sounds of rustling cloth. Moiran and Daedelan took the two thrones behind him.

  When everyone had settled, Thaedoren bowed his head slightly. “We have reached the end of another session of the Evant. I know that you are all looking forward to returning to your House lands in the next few weeks to see to their preparation for winter, and you will be able to depart as planned. But there is one last issue-one of extreme importance-that must be discussed before we bring
the Evant to a close.” Thaedoren turned toward Aeren and nodded respectfully. “Lord Aeren.” He settled into the seat of his throne as Aeren rose.

  Aeren hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts, then moved out from behind the desk and claimed the oval floor beneath the platform. He caught each lord with a penetrating gaze before he spoke. No one sneered or scowled as they had during the first meeting of the Evant Colin had attended when Aeren had tried to speak.

  Aeren’s House had risen since the death of Fedorem and the battle at the Escarpment. And once his relationship with Moiran was revealed and a blood-tie established with the Tamaell, with Thaedoren …

  Colin stirred in his seat. Even he, an outsider, a human, realized the power over the Evant that Aeren would wield then.

  “The sukrael and the Wraiths,” Aeren began. His voice was soft, but everyone in the chamber stirred. “We have all suffered from their attacks since before the Escarpment, since before Khalaek’s betrayal of our people to the Wraith called Walter. Those attacks continue to plague us, the sukrael randomly taking lives within each of our Houses, attacking villages and towns, caravans and traders, sometimes destroying every living thing within a wide radius, every man, woman, child, and animal, their lives drained away, their bodies left where they fell. They ravage our lands, spreading out from the Ostraell forests as their power grows, as the Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell that bind the Shadows. Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, has scoured the Scripts and used its knowledge of these creatures to train his warriors of the Flame to defend against them, but as we have all seen, those defenses are minimal.”

  At this, Lotaern rose in indignation. “The Order of the Flame has done everything in its power to stop these creatures! If not for the Flame, their attacks on Lord Saetor’s lands would have been disastrous! They would have decimated the city of Touvaris at the edge of the Ostraell!”

  Grumbles of agreement shot through the chamber, but Aeren overrode them all. “And what is the situation now?” he demanded. “The Order of the Flame has a permanent presence in Touvaris. They patrol its borders with Saetor’s Phalanx, using their powers and the Flames of Aielan to keep the sukrael at bay.”

  “And the sukrael are at bay.”

  “Barely. All that you have achieved is protection of one land at the sacrifice of another. The sukrael don’t care about land or buildings or crops. They care only for life. They shifted their attention elsewhere, so while Touvaris lies protected by the Flame, they attack House Redlien, or Licaeta, or roam out onto the dwarren plains attacking our trade routes. And as their power grows, as their Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell and expand their territory, the Order of the Flame is spread thinner and thinner and becomes less and less effective. You have already split the force to cover Licaeta’s lands, those closest to the Ostraell. I know you have been discussing the use of the Flame in Lord Jydell’s lands. How many warriors do you have in the Order, Chosen? Are there enough to cover all of the Houses, all of the Alvritshai borders?”

  Lotaern’s jaw worked for a long moment, his eyes blazing with anger, back stiff. “No,” he finally said, the word low and grudging. “More warriors of the Flame are being trained as we speak, but there are not enough to protect all of our lands, all of our people.”

  Aeren nodded. “More warriors of the Flame should be trained, because the threat of the sukrael and the Wraiths is real. I meant no disrespect for the Order, and I-along with every lord present-am grateful for the protection that the Flame has provided from that threat so far. But we must be realistic. The protection the Flame offers will not be enough to cover us all. Not if the sukrael continue to grow in power and the lands they can hunt expand. We need something more. We need something stronger.”

  “What?” Lord Saetor demanded, standing abruptly, one hand pressed forward onto his desk. “We have done everything within our power. What more do you propose we do?”

  Colin rose, even as Aeren turned toward him. Every gaze settled on him as he moved forward, Aeren falling back as he took the center. He moved slowly, the butt of his staff thumping softly onto the marble floor. Tension escalated as he positioned himself before the Tamaell’s platform. A murmur ran through the room, and from the corner of his eye he saw Saetor shove back from his desk. He couldn’t see Lotaern, but he knew the Chosen well enough he could imagine the frown that darkened his face. He had wanted to include Lotaern in the meeting with the Tamaell, to plan how they would present the proposal, but Aeren-and later, Thaedoren-had felt it better that they catch him unaware. They didn’t want to give him the opportunity to turn this proposal to the Order’s advantage. And after what he’d seen and heard since his return, he found he agreed with their fears. The Order had gained in power, had grown, had created its own Phalanx with the Flame. He could feel the weight of its presence even here, not just in Lotaern’s inclusion in the Evant, but in how the Flame had been used to infiltrate the Phalanx of at least two of the Houses. Those members of the Flame would have influence on the caitans of the Phalanx they were there to help, and those caitans could influence their lords.

  But all of that political maneuvering was Aeren’s concern, not Colin’s. He only wanted to stop the Shadows and their attacks, and keep the Wraiths from destroying what the Alvritshai, dwarren, and human races had managed to build over the last hundred years here on the plains of Wrath Suvane.

  Whether the Alvritshai agreed to it or not.

  Raising both arms, he pulled back his hood as he said, “I have a solution.”

  A gasp of recognition echoed through the chamber, immediately followed by outcries of shock, of awe or derision, even a few curses. Colin didn’t flinch, kept his gaze locked on the Tamaell’s expressionless face, on his dark green eyes. Thaedoren let the Evant’s outcry rise and fall, but before he could speak, Lord Peloroun-Colin would recognize the lord’s sneering voice anywhere-snapped, “You have a solution? What of your promise to stop the Wraiths from awakening new Wells? What of your assurances that you could halt the spread of the territory the sukrael could control? Why should we listen to you when none of your promises before this have been fulfilled?”

  A few other lords barked agreement, but everyone quieted when Thaedoren stood, anger flaring across his face. “We will listen because of the debt that we owe Shaeveran after his actions at the Escarpment. Without him, without his intervention, the armies of the Provinces would have slaughtered us all.” His gaze latched onto Peloroun’s. “You know this, Peloroun. You were there. You fought King Stephan’s men, know that they were out for blood, that nothing short of an order from their king could have stopped them. And Shaeveran convinced their king to give that order.”

  Peloroun leaned back, but the heat in his eyes didn’t abate. “Yes, I was there. I remember.”

  Thaedoren’s eyes narrowed at the disrespect that still tinged Peloroun’s voice. “Then let him speak.”

  Colin waited until Thaedoren glanced toward him and nodded, then turned toward Peloroun directly. “I had intended to stop the Wraiths from awakening the Wells, but I’ve discovered that would not be in the best interests of either the Alvritshai or the dwarren.”

  A low murmur rose. Peloroun scowled.

  A low throb of anger pulsed through Colin, warmed his blood. “Since the Escarpment, I have battled the Shadows and the Wraiths. I have traveled these lands in search of them, in search of the Wells that they seek to awaken, using the information gleaned from your own Scripts, given to me by your Chosen. I’ve fought to the heart of forests, to the depths of mountains, to swamps and ancient ruins, all in an attempt to stop the Wraiths from awakening any more of the sarenavriell. And I have the scars to prove it!” He shucked back the sleeves of his robes and exposed his arms, exposed the black mottling that marred his skin, like ink, trapped beneath the surface, pooling and shifting and swirling back and forth. The lords gasped, drew back at the sight, most whispering to each other as he turned so that all could see, even as his own stomach roiled in
revulsion. He did not rip open the robes to expose his body, where the hideous black marks scored his chest, shoulders, and back. All of the damage done during his attempts to stop Walter and the other Wraiths at the few Wells he and Lotaern had managed to discover. Every moment spent near the Lifeblood contained within those Wells made the stains upon his skin grow, the Wells themselves eating away at his soul, altering him inexorably.

  “This is what I have suffered for your protection!” he roared, holding up his arms. “This is what I’ve done to help you!”

  “And yet you have achieved nothing,” Peloroun spat.

  Colin dropped his arms, strode purposely toward Peloroun’s seat, gathering power around him as he moved. He felt a twinge of satisfaction when Peloroun flinched as he came to a halt two paces away, staff held to one side.

  “I’ve discovered that the Wells hold the key to the entire balance of power on the plains. I’ve discovered that all of the freakish storms that rage across the grasses, all of the occurrences of Drifters, of what you call the occumaen, are the result of the imbalance of the Wells themselves. The reason that I have failed to halt Walter and his fellow Wraiths from awakening them is because if I do, then the storms and the occumaen will continue to worsen. We cannot halt the awakenings. The imbalance of doing so may tear the plains apart.”

  “But the sukrael,” Lord Daesor protested. Colin turned toward him, recognized the son who had taken over Barak’s position after he’d been killed on the battlefield at the Escarpment. “If we allow the Wraiths to awaken the Wells, then the Shadows will have free reign over all of Wrath Suvane.”

  “Not,” Colin said, “if we have another way to protect ourselves from them.”