Leaves of Flame (37 page)

“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.”

The thought that perhaps he had made a mistake flashed through Peloroun’s mind, but he leaned forward. His first words cracked and broke, as if something had been lodged in his throat, but as he spoke, his voice steadied. “All of the arrangements have been made here in Caercaern and throughout Alvritshai lands. The Chosen has begun his campaign to bring the people to our cause, and we have gathered together allies within the Evant. But there is a problem.”

Creases appeared in Iroen’s forehead as Khalaek narrowed his eyes. “What problem?”

Peloroun stood and growled, “Lord Aeren.” When Khalaek’s frown merely deepened, he continued. “The Lord of Rhyssal House has taken it upon himself to oppose Lotaern and his use of the Order of the Flame. He has been visiting each lord as they arrive in the city in person, in private, to argue against the Chosen and the Order. I believe that he is gaining support. Most of the lords have already expressed unease at having members of the Flame walking through their lands, although so far only Lord Aeren has vocalized those concerns publicly. I do not know what he has said to bring the lords to his side, but I fear that his politicking will interfere with our plans.”

“And what do you propose I do about it?”

“We,” Peloroun said, emphasizing the word, “were hoping that the timing of events could be shifted forward. We thought perhaps you or one of the other Wraiths could
­arrive sooner than planned, along with your armies, preferably before Lord Aeren has the chance to dismantle everything we have worked to achieve.”

Khalaek stared at him over the desk, and for a moment Peloroun wondered if he knew of their real intent in bringing one of the Wraiths within Lotaern’s grasp. Fresh sweat broke out along his skin. He didn’t know what the Wraiths were capable of. Could Khalaek reach out through Iroen’s body and kill him where he stood if he suspected their treachery? Or would it be simpler to use Iroen’s own cattan to kill him?

Could Peloroun harm Khalaek if he fought back, or would it only destroy Iroen’s body?

“Impossible,” Khalaek finally said, the single word riddled with finality, his next words with derision. “The Winter Tree is still a factor. The Wraiths and the majority of our armies cannot attack Alvritshai lands until the Tree has been destroyed. That is the reason we are even discussing an alliance with you and the Chosen. Without the Tree, we could seize all of the Alvritshai’s lands without your help.”

Anger sparked inside Peloroun, prickling along his shoulders and down his arms. “Then how can we destroy the Tree?”

Iroen’s lips twisted into a smile. “You cannot. Nor can the Chosen. But we have already begun. The Trees are weakening, their power lessening.” The smile vanished. “But it will take time. That is what you and the Chosen are intended to do: provide us with that time. You know this. Soon there will be calls to war. The Accord that all three races signed a generation ago will be tested. That is when you will be needed. You must keep the Alvritshai distracted while I and the rest of the Wraiths bring down the Seasonal Trees and begin our march on Wrath Suvane. That is your goal. Or have you forgotten?”

Peloroun’s hand closed into a fist at the flat derision in
Khalaek’s voice, but he bowed his head. “I have not forgotten.”

“Deal with Lord Aeren on your own. Do whatever it takes to stop him.”

“Of course, Khalaek-­khai.”

Iroen’s black eyes bored into him, the guard’s features shifting subtly, taking on more of Khalaek’s aspects than Iroen’s. “You failed me once in the past, Peloroun, there at the Escarpment. Do not fail me again.”

Before Peloroun could respond, the darkness left Iroen’s eyes and the guard’s body slumped forward, forehead thudding onto the desk. He glared at the body, tried to control his breathing, then shook himself. He shoved Iroen’s body back, noted the too pale skin, the black marks like tattoos no longer swirling like ink, no longer mobile.

He knew before he pressed his hand to Iroen’s neck that the guardsman was dead.

“You must watch the lords and their retainers as closely as possible while I speak,” Aeren said to Hiroun for the tenth time as all around them the proceedings of the Evant continued. He did not look at the guardsman as he spoke, his gaze flicking from one lord to another, to the Chosen and the Tamaell, and then back to the rest of the room. “I will be too focused on presenting my argument to see everything. I’m counting on you to catch what I miss.”

“Yes, Lord Aeren. I’ll watch them carefully.”

Aeren kept the frown from his face at the hint of irritation that had crept into Hiroun’s voice and kept his eyes on the Hall of the Evant’s activity. He knew he’d repeated himself too much, that the repetition came across as a lack of faith in Hiroun, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d felt Eraeth’s absence too much in the last few weeks as he arranged meetings with each of the individual lords as they arrived in
Caercaern. All of his requests had been granted, even by Lord Peloroun, who had opposed him since before the Accord. The arrangements for the meetings and the preparation required had been taxing. Without Eraeth there to share the burden, he’d been forced to handle everything himself. He’d taken to talking out loud to his empty rooms, as if Eraeth were there listening.

Of the six lords he’d met with after speaking to Thaedoren, only one supported him outright. Lord Terroec, still young in his claim to his House after his father’s death, had been the most disturbed by the presence of the members of the Flame in his lands. Aeren hadn’t even informed him of Lotaern’s theft of Shaeveran’s knife before he was agreeing to back him if he brought the matter of the Order to the Evant floor. Peloroun, the oldest lord next to Aeren, had listened attentively, eyebrows raised at Lotaern’s treachery, but had been evasive and ambiguous regarding his support. Aeren had expected nothing less, yet had left the lord’s apartments in Caercaern faintly troubled. There had been something about Peloroun’s household that hadn’t felt quite right. It had taken him two days before it struck him why—­the guardsmen and servants had been too settled, too fixed into a routine. Peloroun had told him he and his entourage had arrived only the day before, and yet Aeren hadn’t seen any unpacked chests or wagons being unloaded. Servants were not hastily scrubbing floors or dusting shelves, clearing away the effects of leaving the rooms and corridors vacant for the long winter months. Everything had already been cleaned; even the smell of the scented water used for such efforts had faded.