Leaves of Flame (53 page)

“And then I began to realize that the majority of the commodities were being bought up by only a few of the Houses, in particular Licaeta and Ionaen, although Uslaen appears to have begun buying similar supplies lately.”

“Perhaps they are simply short this year, their crops not as plentiful as they had hoped.”

Moiran hesitated at the interruption, one hand clenching in her lap before she forced it to relax. She nodded. “I thought so as well. So I began taking a closer look.” She gathered up the letters she’d already presented and set them aside. New pages replaced the first, although these were written in Moiran’s hand. “I started an accounting of all of the supplies that I was aware of through the Ilvaeren. This isn’t an exact accounting, since no House has the right to request the trade books of any other House, but even so.… Look how much grain Licaeta has purchased in the last few months.”

Fedaureon, Lady Yssabo’s letter still in one hand, leaned
forward and regarded the page Moiran indicated. He stilled, then motioned Daevon forward, the Protector taking that as tacit permission to look as well. Moiran didn’t protest; she knew Daevon well enough to believe that he would support her.

“That’s enough grain to feed Rhyssal for over a year,” Fedaureon said.

“Nearly a year and a half. Why would they need so much grain? Why does House Ionaen need so much wood? Or Uslaen so much iron from Nuant?”

Fedaureon leaned back, glanced toward Daevon.

The Protector’s eyebrows rose. “It is a significant amount of resources. One House should not need so much of a single material.”

Fedaureon nodded, his attention returning to Moiran. “What do you think?”

She drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I think that Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen are preparing for… something significant. I believe they are stocking up on food and other supplies.”

“ ‘Something significant,’ ” Fedaureon said. “Such as what? And how does this connect to the Chosen and the Order of Aielan?”

“I don’t know. But none of those Houses has ever done anything without forethought. And all of those Houses have opposed us in the past.”

Fedaureon was silent for a long moment, then abruptly leaned forward, tossing Yssabo’s letter onto the table. “It’s not enough.”

Moiran stiffened, anger sparking in her chest. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that it’s not enough. Father can’t take this before the Evant. What if Lord Peloroun and Lord Orraen have a legitimate reason for purchasing all of these supplies, a reason we are unaware of?”

“Like what?”

Fedaureon shrugged. “A trade agreement with the dwarren or the humans, perhaps? We have no idea what arrangements they’ve made, what the humans or dwarren might be interested in. We each have agreements with different Provinces and clans. They do not detail every individual trade made and for what commodity. They are generalized. It’s possible that the Licaetan grain that could supply the House for a year and a half has already been shipped to their trade partners in Borangst, or even overseas to Andover. Lord Daesor announced a new trade deal with Andover at the opening session.” He waved a hand and said again, “It’s not enough. Not for the Evant.”

“I wasn’t intending to bring it before the Evant,” Moiran said.

Fedaureon’s eyes narrowed. “You want to know if I think it’s solid enough to warn Father.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you already sent a missive to him?”

She nearly chuckled at the suspicion in his voice. “No, Fedaureon. I wanted your opinion first. I know the evidence is thin, but my instinct warns me that this is significant.”

Mollified, Fedaureon scanned the letters she’d presented, the papers containing the lists of supplies shifting hands within the Ilvaeren. Moiran met Daevon’s gaze over his head and the Protector nodded, his mouth pressed into a grim line. She and Aeren had worked hard this past year to ease Fedaureon into his role as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House. Since Aeren’s departure, he had taken on that role more competently than Moiran had expected, and in the last few weeks had shown some independence in his decisions. He’d sent the servants to the temple without seeking out Moiran’s opinion, had made adjustments to the daily routine of the Phalanx on his own. She wasn’t certain how much Daevon had guided these decisions, but she wanted to encourage Fedaureon’s independence as much as possible.

Fedaureon leaned back. “I think your instincts are correct. Father needs to be informed. Perhaps Lords Peloroun and Orraen do have legitimate trades established for this wood and iron, but I doubt it. If he knows where to look, maybe Father can determine what’s really going on.” He stood, his impatience returning. The clash of steel still rang from outside, even though the wind had picked up. “Did you want to warn him, or should I?”

“I believe you should, as Lord Presumptive of the Rhyssal House.”

“H
E’S GOT THE UPPER BODY STRENGTH,” Terson said, “but he’s still a miller.”

Gregson frowned thoughtfully as he watched Ricks and Curtis sparring with Jayson, the miller’s apprentice standing off to one side watching. “But he’s learning fast.”

“Because he’s angry. You can see it in his thrusts. Whatever happened to him in his village, it’s affected him.”

“That isn’t necessarily bad. A little anger during a fight or battle can be useful. And we’ll be seeing many more like him, if what we’ve seen between Cobble Kill and here is any indication.”

Terson’s mouth twisted with derision. “An army of commoners.”

Gregson turned slightly toward him. “Given what we saw at Patron’s Merge, and the destruction we’ve seen throughout the countryside since… I’ll take an army any way I can get it.”

Terson’s brow creased at the mild reprimand, but he said nothing.

In the makeshift practice yard, Ricks took a swing ­toward Jayson’s side, grinning as sweat ran down his face. Jayson parried with a grunt, the swords clashing as Curtis
barked from the sideline, “Now use the momentum of your opponent’s swing to thrust his sword off to the side, leaving him open.”

Jayson attempted to follow through, shoving Ricks’ sword to one side and down, the natural movement still stiff and forced. Gregson could tell that Ricks wasn’t countering the thrust as hard as he could, but Jayson had barely begun practicing. He and Curtis were simply trying to get him to adjust from swinging sacks of grain to handling the weight of the blade. The motions were obviously different, and Jayson needed to feel that difference in his arm and shoulders before he’d have any chance of putting it into practice during a real battle.

And it was looking as if a real battle was imminent.

They’d been traveling covertly since Patron’s Merge, scouts sent out ahead, searching for the Horde as it ransacked its way across the Province. Parties of twenty to over a thousand had been sighted, forcing the large group of Legion and commoners to find alternate routes at least three times already. And the group had grown. Two days before, they’d run into another group with the remnants of another garrison, mostly younger soldiers, only one officer who was beneath Gregson in rank. He had been almost painfully relieved when Gregson had reluctantly taken control of the remains of his unit and the forty civilians and three wagons they’d been protecting.

He might have turned them away to fend for themselves, but they’d had food. He wasn’t certain how long it would last, not with nearly three hundred refugees, but at least most of the men in the group knew how to hunt and trap. Although even that had been restricted. The closer they came to Temeritt—­it could only be a few days away now—­the more activity they’d seen from the Horde. They were closing in on the city, their scattered groups coming together and squeezing all of the refugees between them.
He’d become increasingly convinced that they were going to have to fight their way through to Temeritt, if they arrived in time to make the city at all.

His gaze passed over the rest of the men, and a couple of women, gathered to watch the match. He scratched at the bandage on his left arm, the bite marks beneath itching, then caught himself with a grimace.

“Pair up as many men as we can spare with the civilians. Use whatever you can find for weapons. Don’t give any of the able-­bodied men a choice. Tell them if they want to see Temeritt alive, they’re likely going to have to fight.”

Terson nodded and Gregson moved off toward their encampment. There were still a few hours of sunlight left, but he hadn’t dared move on beyond the small field, the waist-­high grasses now trampled down into a rough mat beneath his feet. The scouts he’d sent out ahead of them had reported the roads safe only up to this point; they hadn’t heard from them since. Gregson tried not to let that fact bother him. The scouts had been late before and it meant nothing. The one time he’d pushed on regardless, they’d nearly run into a party of Alvritshai.

The five wagons were drawn up in a rough circle, a few of the women, Ara included, butchering some of the small game the hunters had brought in. He’d reluctantly agreed to allow a fire, hoping the breeze that whispered through the surrounding trees would be enough to disperse the smoke. As he entered the small circle, a group of children emerged from the closest section of forest, arms laden with branches. They screamed in delight as the two women who’d accompanied them herded them toward the fire, one tripping and falling, bursting instantly into tears. Their laughter cut strangely through the somberness that passed between the adults in the group.

“Children are the most resilient of us all,” Ara said, jerking her knife through the rabbit’s carcass as she separated the
skin from the meat. Once free, she gutted it and impaled the body on a spit, passing it to one of the other women as she tossed the skin to one side and reached for another rabbit.

“I’m not used to dealing with… children.” He’d been about to say civilians. He still didn’t understand why they were all here, why they continued to follow his orders. There was barely enough food or supplies for them all, most of the adults going without in order to feed the children. The rabbits Ara butchered had been a windfall. He was only a lieutenant, and out of the group of three hundred there were only thirty Legionnaires. Why did the others remain? Why didn’t they break away to fend for themselves, or to find someone who could take care of them better than he could?

Ara eyed him critically, up and down, eyebrow quirked. “You seem to be doing just fine. We haven’t lost a man… or woman… yet. Not since Cobble Kill.”

The men and women cut down there by the Alvritshai arrows or the catlike creatures’ claws flashed through his mind and he grimaced. He could still feel the claw marks on his legs, no longer bandaged, but still healing.

Before he could respond, one of the Legionnaires guarding the edge of the camp shouted. Nearly everyone jumped, fear skating through their eyes and faces as they tensed.

To the southeast, another Legionnaire emerged from the edge of the trees. He waved his free hand in desperation, the other holding up one of the scouts and helping him along. The young man was covered in blood, his legs barely supporting him.

Gregson was moving before he consciously thought about it, surprised to find Ara at his side, others heading toward the two men as they stumbled into the field. The Legionnaire who’d shouted a warning and another man reached them first, taking the wounded scout and lifting him off the ground, practically sprinting toward the carts.

“Over here,” Ara shouted, and grabbed Gregson’s arm to halt him before he moved beyond the wagons. She cleared a small section of grass, yelling, “Give us room, give us room,” gruffly, shoving those who lingered too long aside. Then she caught an older woman’s arm. “Get whatever rags you can find, and a bucket of fresh water.”

The Legionnaire and the other man—­a blacksmith, Gregson recalled, from the new group—­set the scout down on the grass and Ara began checking him for wounds. Gregson crouched down beside them as the older woman arrived with an armload of rags, their meager medical box, and a bucket of water.

“Can you hear me?” Gregson asked, lightly slapping the scout’s cheek.

Ara shot him a glare, soaking a rag and running it across the scout’s face. Blood ran away in rivulets, the skin beneath shockingly pale, almost gray. Something clutched at Gregson’s heart, but he forced it back. Three claw marks ran from the younger man’s ear into his scalp, bleeding as fast as Ara could wipe it away. Ara huffed in exasperation and left the wounds, moving toward the rest of his body. Most of the blood that covered his chest and side could have come from the head wound, but not all of it.

Gregson reached down and caught the scout’s jaw, turning his head toward him as he leaned far enough forward he could stare down into the glazed eyes. “I need you to focus.” He saw a flicker of awareness and patted his cheek again until the awareness caught and held. “What happened? What did you see?”

The scout coughed, a froth of blood spattering his lips. Gregson heard Ara rip the man’s shirt open and swear, but he didn’t turn to look. She shouted for more water, more rags, and some godsdamned thread, her voice shaking.

“What did you see?” Gregson repeated.