Leaves of Flame (10 page)

It was winter, so only the Tamaell resided in Caercaern. The rest of the Lords of the Evant had withdrawn to their own
House lands, to ride out the winter months in the confines of their own homes. Including Aeren.

Vaeren led the small group down from the heights of Caercaern into the surrounding hills and woodland, the outer wall of the city falling away and obscured by trees almost instantly. For a brief moment, Colin stared back at the expanse of Caercaern. Sunlight glared off the white-­gray stonework, off the intricate architecture, the subtle lines of the buildings slanting inward and up, giving the impression that the entire city was somehow stretching toward the heavens. The Winter Tree reached for those heights as well, its leaves of silver flickering brightly as they were riffled by the breeze. Behind, spray from the many cascading falls behind the city drifted and sparkled, catching the light and refracting it into rainbow prisms.

When it became obscured, Colin turned back, the forest shading the stone roadway. He’d traveled Alvritshai lands many times, but only recently with time slowed and never with a horse. He already felt aches and pains emerging in his thighs and backside from riding, but he found the people crowding the roadway with their carts, herd animals, and families more annoying.

“Do you hate us so much?”

He turned, startled, to find Siobhaen watching him intently from one side as they pressed their horses through the throng of people on the tail end of the road that angled up to Caercaern. It emptied out onto the wide main east-­west road, where the traffic appeared to be flowing more smoothly, but here at the junction it was chaos.

“I don’t hate the Alvritshai,” he said. “If anything, I’m more comfortable with the Alvritshai than the dwarren. Certainly more than with my own race, who have willfully forgotten me.”

Doubt crossed Siobhaen’s eyes. “It would not appear so,
the way you were frowning at the common people.” She waved toward the morass of people and animals below.

“I wasn’t frowning in distaste. I was frowning in annoyance. If I’d been traveling alone, I would have slowed time, slid past everyone, and been five miles distant in the time it’s taken us to move the last hundred feet.”

She considered him for a long moment, expressionless. “You should be more careful what emotions you show. Some might misinterpret them.” She glanced around at the rest of the members of the Flame, the two brothers arguing with each other twenty paces back, Vaeren ahead waiting impatiently for a cart to move out of his way. “Could you stop time for all of us?” she asked, turning with a raised eyebrow.

He smiled warily, wondering how much Lotaern had revealed to the Order about his powers, how much Vaeren, Siobhaen, and the two brothers knew. “It doesn’t work that way. I’d have to be touching all of you, to carry you along with me, and while I’ve grown in strength the last hundred and twenty-­odd years, I’m not sure I’d be able to handle all four of you.” He thought back to the time he’d saved ­Moiran from the occumaen on the plains, and the time he’d taken King Stephan back to witness his father’s death in order to end the battle at the Escarpment. “It could tear me apart.”

“I see.” She did not try to hide her disappointment. With a sigh, she nudged her horse forward, taking advantage as an empty space opened up to one side.

Half an hour later they were on the main road, headed at a much swifter pace to the west.

Toward Rhyssal House lands.

Eight days later, they emerged onto a ledge, the road curling around a promontory of stone, offering a view of the
valley and lake below. At one end, the lake reflected the slate-­gray clouds above, a narrow swath of water that widened like a teardrop, embracing a stone hillock. Lord Aeren’s manse sat on top of the hill overlooking the lake, the tiered levels wider and flatter than most of the buildings they’d passed on the journey here, enclosed by a low wall.

The town of Artillien spread out across the base of the hillock, a single path leading up to the lord’s house from the fair-­sized collection of buildings, larger than most of the towns and villages they’d passed through in the rest of the House lands, but not the largest. Below the town, filling nearly the entire breadth of the wide valley, were fields now covered in the feet of snow dropped by the two storms that had passed through in the last eight days. The hills and trees all around were cloaked with the most recent fall.

Distantly, they heard the chimes of the town’s temple to Aielan declaring terciern.

“We should reach it before dusk,” Vaeren said. Without turning, he asked, “Will Lord Aeren be expecting us?”

Colin shook his head. “No, but he’ll welcome us.” He couldn’t keep the anticipation from his voice. It thrummed through his arms, stuttered in his heart; he hadn’t seen Aeren or Moiran in what felt like ages.

Dociern had already rung, the thin winter sunlight fading from the sky, when Colin knocked on the heavy wooden doors banded with iron at the Rhyssal House gates. His breath fogged the air in the lantern light as he waited, the temperature dropping quickly as the sun set. Inside, he heard movement and a moment later the door creaked open, one of the Rhyssal House Phalanx glaring out. The man’s gaze raked Colin, taking in his staff, his cloak, and the horse Vaeren held behind. It paused as he noted the white flame emblem of the Order.

He stiffened slightly. “Who calls on the Rhyssal House at this hour?”

“Tell Lord Aeren, Lady Moiran, and Fedaureon that Colin Patris Harten and an escort of the Order of the Flame are here to see them.”

The man’s eyes widened and he whispered, “Shaeveran,” under his breath, pulling back slightly. Then he regained his composure and motioned them inside stiffly. “Lord Aeren welcomes you, of course,” he said. “You can leave your horses here. They will be attended to shortly. Allow me to escort you to the main house.”

They stepped into a courtyard lined with ornamental trees now leafless but laced with white snow, branches weighted down so heavily that some touched the ground. A wide path had been cleared, splitting almost immediately as one arched off toward the stable yard, the other leading toward the main entrance to the manse. A second guard rang a bell set inside a small enclosure to one side and two additional Phalanx and two servants appeared from the direction of the stable. The servants took charge of the horses, the two Phalanx remaining behind to man the entrance.

As soon as they entered Aeren’s manse, the Phalanx guard caught a passing servant and issued orders. The man bowed formally, shot a glance toward Colin, then darted into one of the halls and vanished. Colin scanned the inner room, the paneled walls carved with intricate garden scenes, lanterns hung from the heavy wooden ceiling beams overhead. The floor immediately inside the entrance was stone for easier cleaning of snowmelt and mud from boots and shoes. The stone gave way to wood in the hall on the far side. A table sat to either side of the entrance, one containing some type of potted shrub pruned into the shape of a windswept tree, its roots clinging to moss-­covered stone, the other holding a collection of blown glass vases. Banners in the blue and red of Rhyssal House hung on the wall above them, the wings of an eagle—­the House sigil—­embroidered in gold on the split field.

A moment later, he heard footsteps coming from the left. Moiran appeared, dressed in Rhyssal House colors, smiling broadly. “Shaeveran! What an unexpected surprise!” Her gaze shot toward Vaeren and the rest of the Flame standing awkwardly behind Colin and creases appeared in her forehead between her eyebrows, the evidence of the frown there and then gone in the space of a heartbeat. Her gaze locked with his, and he saw the question there even as she said, “And you’ve brought guests. From the Order.”

The only outward indication of the sudden tension in the air was the stiffening of the Phalanx member who had escorted them to the manse from the gate.

“Yes. There is news from Caercaern. This isn’t a social visit.”

Moiran’s head bowed, strain tainting her smile. “That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.” She stepped forward and hugged him, hands on his shoulders as she drew back. As with Lotaern, Colin noticed the small signs of age on her face, the lines around her eyes, the dullness of her hair. The lantern light even glinted off a few strands of gray. “It’s been too long,” she said, and squeezed his shoulders before stepping back.

It was more emotion than the Alvritshai usually allowed themselves to share in public.

More formally, she turned to include all of the Order. “A light meal is being prepared. If you wouldn’t mind leaving your bags, they’ll be taken to rooms being made ready for your stay. Servants will show you to the kitchens.” She turned to Colin. “Lord Aeren is waiting in our private chambers.”

Servants appeared behind her as Vaeren and the others shrugged out of their satchels and cloaks. They gathered the supplies together and vanished down the opposite hall, Colin keeping the satchel containing the knife across his ­shoulder.
Siobhaen and the two brothers were led away by another servant, but Vaeren remained at Colin’s side, daring him to protest. Moiran’s eyebrow rose in question, but he shook his head slightly in warning.

She led them to one of Aeren’s outer rooms. A fire blazed in the hearth, the room warmer than the entrance, the soft light glowing on the many glass objects strewn around the room on tables and desks and amidst more carefully trimmed plants and small trees. A large desk took up most of the central area, the wide top littered with books and papers and spent quills and ink bottles. Another desk off to one side was draped with blue-­and-­red cloth and held a single fat white candle in a gold basin, surrounded by a dagger, a sword, a locket with a fine silver chain, and the pendant Colin recognized as the sign of Aeren’s successful completion of his studies as an acolyte at the Sanctuary.

Aeren sat in one of an array of chairs around a low table and stood as Moiran arrived. His smile didn’t falter at all when Vaeren entered behind him, although he folded his hands before him.

“Colin, it’s good to see you. You know Eraeth, of course,” he said motioning toward his Protector, who stood as always to one side. Eraeth’s gaze had settled on Vaeren, the two watching each other silently. “And my son, Fedaureon, along with his Protector, Daevon.”

Daevon nodded formally, darker and broader of shoulder than Eraeth, with the same deadly stance all of the Phalanx used. But when Fedaureon rose from his seat beside his father, Colin had to stifle a gasp, his eyes widening. “Fedaureon?”

The young man—­young by Alvritshai standards—­smiled and stepped forward to take Colin’s hand in a human handshake. “Yes, Shaeveran, it’s me.”

“You’ve… grown.”

Fedaureon laughed and motioned toward the chairs
spread around the low table as servants appeared carrying decanters of wine, glasses, and platters of food. “It’s been nearly twenty-­five years since you last saw me,” he said. “I’m not surprised I look different. Sit. My father and I were discussing the Evant and current trade negotiations with the Provinces and Andover. We could use a diversion.”

Aeren frowned as everyone settled and when Fedaureon took his seat beside his father Colin glanced back and forth between them. Fedaureon looked like a younger version of his father in every respect except the eyes; he had Moiran’s green eyes.

“He looks like you when I first met you on the plains,” Colin said with a tight smile to Aeren. The smile broadened when Eraeth snorted. “A slightly older version of you.”

“There is a resemblance, yes,” Moiran muttered. “Please, eat, drink. Your travels must have been harsh with the recent storms. Was the snow troublesome? Were the roads kept clear?”

“For the most part,” Colin said. “We had no serious trouble, it was merely—­”

“Annoying,” Vaeren interjected.

No one reached for the food; they were all waiting for Colin, he realized.

He took one of the small plates on one of the trays and began with a few slices of the smoked meat he recognized as gaezel from the plains, ladling a spicy sauce that smelled of oranges over it. As soon as he started, the rest leaned forward for their own trays.

“I was going to say it was merely an inconvenience,” he said dryly. “I should introduce my traveling companions. Vaeren is caitan of the Order of the Flame. The others are Siobhaen, Boreaus, and Petraen, also members of the Flame.”

Aeren nodded to Vaeren. “Welcome to Rhyssal House.”

“Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality,”
Vaeren answered. “May Aielan’s Light guide your House to prosperity.”

“It has.” Aeren’s gaze drifted to Colin. “So what brings you to Rhyssal at this time of year, and with such company?”

“The sarenavriell.”

Aeren, Moiran, and Eraeth stilled. Fedaureon and Daevon looked confused. It was not what they had expected.

Moiran was the first to move, reaching to pour some wine, but it was Aeren who spoke.

“The sarenavriell?” His voice was troubled. “I thought the Wells had been stabilized.”

“I thought so as well. For that matter, they may still be stabilized.”

“What makes you think otherwise?”

“Do you remember the storms on the plains?”