Leaves of Flame (45 page)

Moiran sat in her personal chambers in the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien, papers scattered across the small, low table before the settee where she reclined. Incense burned in a brazier of dwarren fashion on a pedestal in one corner, the fragrance sharp and spicy. The wood-­paneled walls glowed in the light of a dozen candles strewn around the room on other tables of various sizes and shapes. A few held potted plants, vines hanging down to the floor, while others sported glass art from artisans across Wrath Suvane. Three additional chairs surrounded the main table at Moiran’s right, used when the ladies of the other Houses of the Evant visited, even though such occurrences were rare. The Ilvaeren—­the equivalent of the Evant but run by the women, dealing with the trade agreements between the Houses—­only met for a bonding of a lord, when a new lady would be introduced to the Ilvaeren, or upon the death of one of their own. There was simply no need otherwise. They could handle all of the necessary transactions through sealed letter and courier.

Moiran currently considered one such letter, tilting the parchment toward the sunlight coming in from the window and frowning. Lady Yssabo’s handwriting was elegant, her use of the quill superb, but the perfection of her letters could not blunt the refusal behind her words. She had no
remaining grain to trade with Rhyssal House, she said. Vivaen, the Lady of House Licaeta, had asked for a larger than usual supply of barley and flax nearly two weeks before and she had seen no reason to refuse at the time. She sent her regrets.

Moiran lowered the letter, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

“If Father were here, and could see your face, he would apologize profusely for whatever he had done wrong.”

Moiran turned to find Fedaureon standing in the open doorway, a tight smile on his lips, a missive clutched in one hand, the paper crumpled. Daevon hovered behind him, unobstrusive. Even though Fedaureon’s words had been joking, they were tense.

Like his shoulders.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “And would he be wrong to apologize?”

Fedaureon shook his head with a small laugh. “Probably not.”

Her gaze dropped to the paper in his hand. “Is that from Aeren?”

Fedaureon stepped into the room, taking a seat across from her as she set the letter from Lady Yssabo on top of the pages on the table before her. Daevon took up a station to one side of the door. “It is. He sends word on the opening of the Evant. It isn’t good.”

He handed her the missive, ignoring her sharp glance. She smoothed the wrinkled parchment across her knee, Aeren’s smooth print soothing in its familiarity. He had departed for Caercaern with his escort of Phalanx and a covey of servants over three weeks before. He would already have spoken to many of the lords as they arrived, before the Evant was called into session. The Evant would have convened only three days ago.

As the realization struck, she looked up, eyes widening.
“How can this be about the opening of the Evant? There hasn’t been enough time for a courier to arrive. Unless…”

“Two horses were ridden to death to bring this to us as fast as possible.”

When Fedaureon didn’t continue, she turned her attention to the letter. She read it fast, her breath quickening as the implications began to dawn on her, even as she murmured, “This isn’t possible. How could Thaedoren have allowed this? The Order of Aielan has always been separate from the Evant. Always. And now it is the equivalent of one of the Houses?”

“So it appears.” Fedaureon’s tone was serious, but Moiran couldn’t help but hear the youth in it. She didn’t think he understood what this would mean to the Evant, what it would mean to the stability of the Alvritshai.

How could he understand? He had only just begun to learn what it took to become a Lord of a House of the Evant. She had handed all of the basics of running the House to him when Aeren left for his foolhardy excursion to the White Wastes, had in effect allowed him to be the Lord of House Rhyssal, but that was nothing compared to the lord’s duties in the Evant and Caercaern.

“You don’t understand,” she snapped, more harshly than she’d intended. She tossed the parchment to the table as she stood. “The entire balance of the Evant will be disrupted. The power structure of Caercaern will shift. The Order has always had influence on the Evant, the faith of each lord affecting his decisions for that House, but this… this allows that same faith a position on the floor. The Chosen will be able to coerce the lords directly now. He’ll be able to introduce his own proposals, will wield the name of Aielan to sway those lords to his side, and with their votes—­and his own—­he will be able to push his policies through unopposed!” She began to pace, thinking aloud, Fedaureon
watching her silently. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved. “Too many of the lords put their faith before their own interests. It’s too much power in the hands of one man. Why would Thaedoren allow it?”

“According to Father’s letter, the Tamaell did more than simply allow it,” Fedaureon said, retrieving the letter from the table. “He says that it was Thaedoren’s suggestion.”

“Your half brother would never do such a thing,” Moiran muttered dangerously.

“He must have had his reasons. The letter mentions Lady Reanne. Father says he can feel her influence in Caercaern already.”

Moiran shot Fedaureon a glare. She knew Fedaureon had never gotten along with Thaedoren and Daedalan, even though they were half siblings. There were too many years between them, Fedorem’s sons already full grown before Fedaureon’s birth, Thaedoren already the Tamaell of the Alvritshai. There had been little interaction between them, except on a political level.

That still did not excuse the bland condescension in Fedaureon’s tone.

“Tamaell Thaedoren is of your blood. You will not speak of him with that tone. Nor of Lady Reanne.”

Fedaureon held her gaze for an angry moment, before a measure of shame flickered through his eyes and he lowered his head slightly. Moiran straightened where she stood, then motioned toward the letter in his hands.

“What else does your father say? What does he suggest we do?”

Fedaureon scanned the parchment, although Moiran doubted he needed to reread the words. “He says that the Evant has ruled against the presence of the Order of the Flame in House lands unless they have the express permission of the lords to enter, but he doesn’t say anything about what we should do regarding the Order becoming a House itself.”

“He’s leaving that up to us, then.” She paused, then added, “Up to you.” When Fedaureon looked up, she said, “You are the Lord of Rhyssal House in his absence, not me. So what do you suggest?”

She watched as he considered, his brow furrowed in thought.

“There isn’t an overt threat yet, although both you and Father seem to think so. We should warn the Phalanx in our House lands, especially those who are patrolling the borders.”

“Anything else?”

Fedaureon considered, glanced toward Daevon, who merely raised one unhelpful eyebrow. “Increase the Phalanx guard here in Artillien.”

“Nothing more?”

He frowned. “No. The creation of a new House within the Evant isn’t enough to warrant anything more, not until the Order of Aielan has done something more blatant.”

“What about the members of the Order of the Flame that are already within Rhyssal House lands?”

Her son glanced down at the letter in his lap. “Father says that they have been ordered to return to Caercaern, unless given permission to remain by the lord of that House. He wants those within Rhyssal to leave, but we have to give them a reasonable amount of time before we can act. I don’t think we can do anything about them at the moment.”

He looked up, seeking her approval. But he was old enough and wise enough not to need it. She didn’t need to validate his decisions any longer. She couldn’t. He needed to begin standing on his own.

Instead, she said, “Very well, Lord Presumptive of Rhyssal House. You should make your wishes known to the Phalanx and the rest of the House.”

Fedaureon stood uncertainly, then departed, Daevon bowing formally and falling in behind him. She heard her
son issuing orders before he’d reached the end of the hall, his voice sharp with confidence, all of the uncertainty gone. She nodded to herself, pleased, then moved to the table to pick up parchment and quill, dipping the nub into the bottle of ink to one side.

Fedaureon may not be able to do more without some further sign of aggression from Lotaern and the Order, but the Ilvaeren had no such political bounds.

She began to draft a letter to the ladies of those Houses allied most closely with Rhyssal. Halceon Nuant and Sovaeren Baene needed to be apprised of the situation as soon as possible. Perhaps they would be able to help. She wasn’t certain how, just yet, but as Tamaea, she’d learned long ago to keep her options open.

“We have to get word to GreatLord Kobel immediately,” Gregson said as soon as they entered the town of Cobble Kill. “Terson, begin drafting a missive as soon as you get back to the garrison. Curtis, Ricks, send out the alarm and begin gathering the rest of the Legion in the commons, along with anyone in town with a sword or who knows how to fight. And someone fetch the councilman.”

Terson nodded sharply and took off ahead of them, Curtis and Ricks following a horse-­length behind, cutting past the few people who lined the street and the commons. Jayson watched them for a moment, then turned to find Gregson looking at him.

“What do you and the boy intend to do?” the lieutenant asked.

The question sent a jolt through Jayson’s body, prickling along his spine and shoulders. He involuntarily straightened in the saddle and sucked in a sharp breath. The numbness he’d felt since seeing Lianne’s body shuddered through him, and he glanced quickly toward Corim. He hadn’t permitted
himself to think since they’d left Gray’s Kill, Gregson not even allowing them time to burn or bury the bodies. As soon as they’d verified that Lianne and Corim’s parents were dead, he’d ordered them back on horseback and herded them toward Cobble Kill. Jayson hadn’t protested and it never crossed his mind to stay behind. There was nothing left of Gray’s Kill, even though his mill remained standing. There were no farmers now, no one to bring grain to be milled.

But he hadn’t considered what he would do in Cobble Kill either.

“I don’t know,” he said and caught Corim’s eye. “I… I haven’t had time to think.”

Gregson nodded. “For now, I want you to stay here,” he said, and Jayson realized they’d stopped before Ara’s tavern. “Ara will put you up at the GreatLord’s expense. I’ll need to speak with the councilman of Cobble Kill. He may want to speak with you himself. And perhaps some of the other dignitaries in the town. After that… well, we’ll see. I may have to send you and the boy to Temeritt to give them your own accounting of what happened.”

“Temeritt?” Jayson swallowed. “I’ve never been farther than Jenkin’s Peak.”

Gregson’s eyebrows rose.

He jumped when a bell suddenly clanged, shattering the afternoon stillness. All heads in the commons turned ­toward the noise, including Gregson, who hadn’t even flinched.

“That’s the call to arms,” the lieutenant said.

On the stone plaza, men and women traded quick glances, women herding children back toward their homes, their errands forgotten. The men’s faces turned grim, hustling off in the direction Terson and the others had taken.

The doors to one of the main houses that looked out onto the square abruptly flung open and an elderly man
stepped out onto the street, glaring toward the sound. Two other men appeared in the doorway. The man spat on the ground to one side, then noticed Gregson astride his mount before the tavern. His expression twisted into a grimace and he headed straight toward them.

Gregson sighed, but straightened in his saddle. “Councilman Darren.”

“What is the meaning of this?” the councilman growled as he approached, motioning toward the clamor from the garrison. “Why are you summoning the Legion? I have visitors, merchants of significance to two trading houses, including one Signal. This interruption to our business is intolerable!”

Jayson’s gaze shot toward the two men who had sidled out onto the front steps of the stone manse, looking after the councilman curiously. They were dressed in the vests of the trading companies, although the dark blue of the man on the right was obviously of finer quality, even from this distance. He must be the Signal.

Gregson’s eyes darkened. “Your business dealings are of no concern to me, Councilman. The safety of this town is.”

Darren spluttered. “I fail to see how the safety of the town is threatened at the moment.”

“Have you not heard?” Gregson said stiffly. “The village of Gray’s Kill has been razed to the ground, nearly all of the villagers slaughtered.”

The councilman stared at the lieutenant, eyes wide, mouth open.

Doubt had just begun to filter through the initial shock in the man’s eyes, changing almost instantly into disbelief and rage, when Jayson heard a hiss followed by a thunk as something struck the councilman in the chest.

Jayson’s heart lurched even as the councilman staggered, gaze dropping to the black arrow that protruded at a sharp angle just below his heart. Blood already stained his shirt,
seeping downward. One hand rose to clutch at the shaft of the arrow, tugging at it weakly.