Leaves of Flame (29 page)

When the dwarren escort halted outside the chamber, Colin dismounted. Without waiting for the group to speak to the shaman guards who stood outside the door, he strode forward, leaving Eraeth and Siobhaen in mid-­dismount.

The two shamans tensed instantly, reaching to block his path with the two scepters they carried, the snakes’ rattles and strings of beads clicking together with a sharp crack.

Colin seized time, stepped between them and beneath the supposed barrier, coming up before the keeva’s door. He reached for the door handle, releasing time a moment before he touched it and shoved the door open, ducking down through the low lintel designed more for the dwarren
than humans. He straightened as much as he could inside, hand still on the door, heard gasps and shouts of consternation behind him, but he ignored it all, knowing that Eraeth and Siobhaen could defend themselves if necessary. He focused his attention on the six dwarren who sat in a rough circle around the central hollow of the fire pit, obscured by the thick haze of yetope smoke.

“If you’re discussing the Turning,” he said, “then I have information for you.”

The shouts from behind had changed to anger. He slid to one side, the six dwarren clan chiefs and shamans glaring at his hunched form, one of them sucking on the end of a pipe even though the yetope was thrown in the central fire for such meetings. One of the shaman guards burst into the room, anger twisting his face into a tight knot. He gave Colin a vicious look, then turned to the clan chiefs and head shamans in the room.

Brandishing his scepter, he bowed his head and said roughly, “Apologies, Old Ones. This
human
—­” he spat the word “—­passed between us before we could halt him. He is one of the elloktu!”

The eyebrows of the shaman sucking on the pipe rose. He took two more draws, then removed the pipe and blew smoke into the miasma already beginning to thin from the draft coming from the open door.

“The elloktu cannot survive here,” he said in a cold, deep voice cracked with age. “Or have you forgotten the gift of the Summer Tree?” He turned his wizened eyes on Colin again. “Shadowed One. We have not met, but I know of you. Your legend has been passed down to our generation, even though it is not yet an old legend.”

Colin nodded. “I am thankful to hear that.”

A silence followed, the shaman who’d spoken not taking his eyes off Colin. The rest of those gathered shared glances, until one of the clan chiefs stirred.

“Leave,” he said, motioning the guard out. “You are disturbing the smoke.”

The guard straightened, cast a questioning look at the head shamans in the group, but got no support from them. With a last scathing look at Colin, he departed, shutting the door behind him.

The tableau held for a moment, then one of the clan chiefs motioned toward a space before the fire, a natural shelf of rock that acted as a bench. Colin settled himself, his position still awkward, then leaned back against the rock wall. The entire chamber had been hollowed out by water ages past so that the contours were smooth, not carved or chipped. With the door closed, the heat in the room doubled, sweat breaking out on Colin’s back, chest, and armpits. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sweet, cloying yetope smoke, even as one of the clan chiefs tossed more of the dried plant onto the coals in the pit. Flames flared as it was consumed, smoke drifting up, until it was so thick Colin could barely make out the other dwarren in the reddish light.

When he exhaled, slowly, so as not to break into a fit of coughing, the shaman with the pipe spoke. “Welcome to our council, Shadowed One. I am called Quotl, head shaman of Thousand Springs, and this is Oaxatta of Shadow Moon, and Attanna of Silver Grass.”

“And I am Tarramic, clan chief of Thousand Springs.” The dwarren who’d ordered the shaman guard to leave motioned toward the other two clan chiefs. “Iktamman of Silver Grass, and Ummaka of Shadow Moon.”

“May Ilacqua bless this meeting and bring us wisdom in our decisions,” Quotl intoned, motioning with his pipe as if it were a scepter. The words were reverent, but a smile turned one corner of his mouth a moment before he drew again on the pipe. In the dimness, Colin thought his eyes flared with amusement.

Tarramic shifted where he sat. “What do you know of the Turning, Shadowed One?” His tone suggested he doubted Colin would know anything of importance.

“The balance of the Wells has been disrupted.”

Iktamman snorted. “The storms have plagued the plains for months, and now the Eyes of Septimic have returned.”

“The gods are angry,” Oaxatta agreed. “It is a sign. The Turning is upon us.”

Quotl’s eyebrows rose again. “The Turning began generations ago. It has simply begun to speed up.”

Most of the dwarren fell silent at this, a few making rumbling sounds of agreement in their chests.

“It is more than that,” Colin said, already beginning to feel the effects of the smoke and heat. His arms and legs tingled, both taking on additional weight. At the same time, the heaviness was countered by a lightness in his mind, as if he were lifting free of his body. The dual sensation brought with it a sense of clarity. “The Wraiths and the Shadows—­the urannen—­have found a deeper, richer source of the Lifeblood to the east. They’ve opened up a conduit between it and the Wells here in the west.”

All six of the dwarren eyed him warily, then traded a glance. Something passed between them, and then Quotl gave Tarramic a curt nod. The head shaman no longer seemed amused.

“We called this meeting because of what we have seen on the plains. The storms and the distortions have grown too numerous and too dangerous for us to ignore them any longer. We have also heard from the other clans that there are disturbances to the east, an increase in the activity of the urannen and a resurgence of the kell. The clans have always sent war parties out beyond the reach of the Summer Tree to hunt them, kill them where we can, but their numbers have increased and they have begun banding together. The war parties, the trettarus, can now be overwhelmed.
There are also disturbing sightings beyond the borders of dwarren lands, beyond the plains, in the depths of the Thalloran Wasteland. The trettarus report bands of figures—­Alvritshai or men—­walking the sands. No one has dared enter the Wastelands to confirm this.

“We gathered to discuss whether or not a Gathering of all of the clans should be called. We have been discussing it for three days now.”

Colin’s heart sank. He thought again of the Wraith’s words at the Well in the White Wastes. Even the lassitude brought on by the yetope could not still the sudden urgency that gripped him.

“What have you decided?” he asked.

Before the clan chiefs and head shamans could respond, the dull boom of drums resounded through the room, damped by the walls of stone that surrounded them. Colin glanced toward the closed door, even as the six dwarren stirred from their seats. Only Quotl seemed unfazed by the interruption.

When Colin turned toward him, he smiled.

“The decision has been made for us. We Gather. All clans, all Riders. We Gather at the Sacred Waters, beneath Ilacqua’s gaze. We Gather for war.”

“W
HAT’S GOING ON?” Siobhaen asked the moment Colin stepped out of the keeva, the rest of the clan chiefs and head shamans already out in the cavern. The sound of the drums, at least three times louder in the chamber than inside the small room where the meeting had been held, had driven the dwarren into a frenzy of activity. He could hear the clan chiefs shouting orders, Riders scrambling to obey, the rest of the dwarren sprinting to get out of the way. The sudden activity and the harsh boom of the drums had set the horses and gaezels on edge.

“The dwarren have been called to a Gathering.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked in frustration. A group of dwarren jostled past her and she frowned down at them in annoyance, one hand gripping her horse’s bridle as she stepped back.

“It’s like calling the Evant,” Eraeth said. “The dwarren only call a Gathering for something of extreme importance, something affecting the dwarren as a whole. Otherwise, the clan chiefs deal with it individually.”

“The presence of three clan chiefs in one territory was significant enough, but this will bring them all together.”

“Where? And over what?” Eraeth asked.

Colin paused and listened to the deep bass throat of the drums. “The call is coming from the Painted Sands Clan, the easternmost dwarren territory. But they’re meeting at the Sacred Waters. They’re headed toward the Confluence.”

As he said it, the heavy boom of the drums faded. The dwarren paused for a moment, then resumed their frantic activity at a growled shout from Quotl. At the same time, a smaller drum within the chamber picked up a different rhythm, the sound echoing through the hall and up the long corridor toward the surface.

“I still don’t understand,” Siobhaen muttered.

Colin ignored her, stepping forward into the edge of the confusion. The two Alvritshai, Colin, and the horses had been left by the keeva, practically unattended. He searched for Clan Chief Tarramic, found him arguing with two of the head shamans, all three of them gesturing toward the mouth of the corridor where the summons had originated.

Behind, he heard Eraeth speaking to Siobhaen in a soft voice.

“The Confluence is the religious center of the dwarren. It’s the heart of their culture. No Alvritshai has ever been there. It was the goal of the Trials that those in the ruling Houses made before the Accord put an end to it. The sons and daughters of the ascendant lords were sent into the plains in search of the ruanavriell, the Blood of Aielan. Most found tunnels on the plains that led to streams or pools of water suffused with the healing water’s runoff, but no one ever found the source.”

Colin thought of the vial of pink-­tinged water that Aeren had gifted to his father, the result of Aeren’s own Trial, and felt a tug of bitterness, the emotion too used and worn to remain long. Whatever his father had used it for had been for naught once they reached the Ostraell.

Siobhaen considered what Eraeth had said, then stepped up to Colin’s side. “But it doesn’t make sense. The dwarren
aren’t reacting to what we know has happened to the sarenavriell. They can’t be. The drums came before you emerged from the room with the clan chiefs.”

“You’re right. This is something else.” He hesitated, then added, “I think it has to do with the activity to the east.”

“What activity?” Eraeth demanded.

“Activity with the Shadows. Sightings of another creature they call the kell in larger and larger groups. And bands of Alvritshai or perhaps humans deeper in the Thalloran Wasteland.”

“Alvritshai in the Wastelands?” Siobhaen scoffed. “Impossible. We come from the north. We would never survive in the desert.”

“Are you so certain? You’ve adapted to the southern reaches of the mountains rather well.”

“Regardless,” Eraeth interjected before Siobhaen could respond, “we should send word back to the Evant. The Tamaell should be aware of the dwarren movements, especially on such a large scale.”

“Lotaern should be forewarned as well.”

Eraeth shot her a piercing look and Colin nearly sighed. Siobhaen would have to bring up Lotaern now, after the two of them had been grudgingly civil to each other for the past few days. But surprisingly, Eraeth said nothing.

“We aren’t going to get the chance to send word.”

Both Eraeth and Siobhaen reacted at the same time. “Why not?”

Colin let the rumble of thousands of hoofed feet pounding into stone answer for him. Both of the Alvritshai guards turned toward the sound as it filled the cavern with its echo, the drums that had called to the surface falling silent. The dwarren who filled the giant plaza suddenly parted, surging to either side and clearing the space before the main corridor opposite the waterfall. As they did so, the three clan chiefs stepped forward, the head shamans a few paces behind.

A moment later, the leading edge of Riders emerged from the corridor, standing five abreast. Row upon row of the gaezels appeared, the leading group swinging around in a wide circle to make room for those coming behind in a pattern that Colin had first seen on the plains above decades ago. As the wide plaza filled, the number of Riders growing large enough that Colin’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, he noted that not all of the gaezels bore dwarren. The group had brought down the mounts of those already below.

Tarramic raised a hand when the last of the Riders appeared, his other stroking the beads and feathers interlaced in his beard. Those milling about in the central plaza stilled, the cessation of sound spreading like a ripple on water from Tarramic’s position, although it was impossible for the hall to fall totally silent with the waterfall raging in the background.

As he began to speak, his rumbling voice filling the cavern, Siobhaen grasped Colin’s arm in irritation, forced him to look at her. “What is he saying?”

“He’s telling the clans—­all of the clans present—­to prepare to leave for the Sacred Waters. We’ll depart at dawn.”

“We can send word back to Caercaern then,” Eraeth said succinctly.

Colin shook his head. “No. We can’t.”