Leaves of Flame (59 page)

Sylvea glanced up at the end, eyes pleading, her words rushing forth in a single breath.

Moiran didn’t move, her body rigid with tension. Inside, her stomach roiled and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the effort painful, then glanced toward the window to judge the light.

“Lady Moiran?” Sylvea’s voice was barely a whisper, fraught with worry.

It snapped Moiran into action.

“It’s nearly terciern,” she said, standing, the papers and
Fedaureon’s indiscretion forgotten. “Fetch my shawl… no, go to your own quarters and bring me back one of your own shawls or a cloak, preferably something with a hood so that I can conceal myself. I assume that this priest from the Order of the Flame will be giving the afternoon service?”

Sylvea nodded. “I heard one of the others say that he’s been speaking at nearly every service for the past week.”

“Good. Meet me at the servants’ gate with the cloak. We’ll have to walk down to the town to allay suspicion. Move quickly. We haven’t much time.”

Sylvea darted out of the room, the sound of her soft footsteps receding down the hall as she sprinted for her rooms. Moiran made her way toward the front of the manse. She contemplated telling Fedaureon where she was headed, but dismissed the idea. He was still in Aeren’s rooms with Mattalaen. She could handle this herself.

Ten minutes later she was standing outside the servants’ gate, the late afternoon sunlight not quite warm enough to take the chill out of the breeze. She shivered, then caught sight of Sylvea running toward her across the courtyard, a dark shawl bundled in one hand. She’d had the presence of mind to attire herself similarly. She slowed as she neared Moiran, who took the proffered shawl and draped it over her head, pulling its sides close to conceal her face.

“I hope this will work,” Sylvea fretted.

“This is fine, Sylvea.”

The shawl was large enough to cover her head and fall across both her shoulders, concealing the embroidery near her neck if Moiran pulled its edges in close. None of the servants would have such fine material for clothing, but she hoped the dimness of the temple would hide the quality of her dress. She could do nothing about the shoes without losing more time.

Satisfied, she opened the servants’ gate and motioned Sylvea to follow.

They wound down the road and off the rock promontory overlooking the lake into the streets of Artillien, passing a group of Phalanx who didn’t give Moiran a second glance. Relaxing slightly, she and Sylvea entered the marketplace, the servant taking her arm and chattering away as if they were searching for specific goods even as she wound them toward the temple. Moiran remained quiet, responding when necessary, but her attention was focused on the temple, her anger already building. They had known that the Order of the Flame presented a danger. Aeren had thought that confronting Lotaern in the Evant would be enough, that the Chosen would remove his warrior acolytes as requested and that would be the end of it. But Moiran had partnered with Fedorem as Tamaell long enough to know that once someone was ensconced in their role, they were nearly impossible to move. The members of the Order of the Flame had integrated themselves too deeply into the local temples to be simply ordered home. She hadn’t expected Lotaern to follow the Evant’s edict without a fight.

Sylvea fell silent as soon as they left the marketplace and arrived at the temple doors. Two acolytes stood outside, ushering the last of the supplicants through the doors as the chimes overhead began to announce terciern, the afternoon ritual. Moiran crossed the threshold into the shadowed interior, an acolyte’s hands on her back to guide her. She bowed her head and tugged the shawl farther down over her face as he closed the doors behind them, then followed Sylvea into the back of the chamber, behind a number of other supplicants.

Moiran was shocked at the amount of people in the temple. She’d attended rituals before, but had never seen so many in the afternoon session, when most would be working the fields or minding their own shops. Utiern and cotiern had always been the most popular rituals during the
day, never terciern. The fact that there were so many here at this hour sent a shudder of unease through Moiran’s gut.

The supplicants knelt abruptly, and Moiran followed suit, sinking to her knees at the back of the room. Near the front, four acolytes were arranged around the basin that formed the main altar, a fire already burning in the oil that filled it, the flames skirling toward the ceiling, black smoke thick on the air. The oil and smoke burned Moiran’s nostrils and she tried to take shallow breaths as the four acolytes were joined by the two who had stood guard at the door. A chant began. It was the typical terciern mantra, thanking Aielan for the abundance of food, for the sun and rain to grow it, casting blessings on the workers who tilled the soil and the harvest afterward. Moiran murmured the chant without thought, her eyes scanning those gathered and the acolytes near the basin. All of the supplicants were commoners in Artillien, many of whom she’d done business with. Most had family members who worked at the manse. The acolytes were men and women she’d seen at this temple since she began attending after bonding with Aeren and becoming part of the Rhyssal House by blood.

She began to think that Sylvea had overreacted, when the chanting began to die down and the six acolytes bowed down toward the flames that represented Aielan and backed away.

As they retreated, the member of the Order of the Flame appeared, rounding the side of the basin slowly, head lowered and concealed by a cowl. For a moment, it appeared as if the acolytes were bowing down to him instead of to Aielan, and Moiran pressed her lips together in disapproval, knowing that the misdirection was intentional. He wore the same robes as the acolytes, but with additional raiment over the shoulders—­a length of silken purple cloth with an embroidered white flame on one side, a cattan on the other.

When he reached the front of the basin, the red­gold
flames billowing out behind him, he paused, then reached up to his cowl. With a flourish, he flung the cloth back, revealing his face.

At the same time, the fire behind him blazed up with a startling whoosh, the flames changing from red-­gold to white.

Those assembled gasped and Moiran’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t think it was anything more than theatrics, but she had to admit it had an impact. Even Sylvea turned to her with wide eyes, quickly ducking her head as if chastised when Moiran merely shook her head.

“Aielan welcomes you,” the member of the Flame intoned. “She makes Her presence known in the flames of the altar, and in the embers of your heart. Feel Her presence and know that She is with you, always.”

Those around Moiran whispered small prayers to themselves, a few grasping flame pendants that hung around their necks, the man beside her raising it to his lips and forehead. The acolytes who had backed away from the fire began to circulate among those assembled, touching bowed heads in blessing. A few pressed offerings into the acolytes’ hands as they passed—­coins, or small bundles of grain, or notes on parchment to be tossed into the flames of the basin.

“You come here seeking solace, seeking Aielan’s blessing,” the member of the Flame continued, “and for that we are grateful. But there are others in Artillien who are not as faithful as you, who have strayed from Aielan’s path, who have lost sight of Aielan’s flame and have been led or have wandered astray. Those Alvritshai should be pitied, for it is only under Aielan’s guidance that we shall be shown the true path and the way back home. It is only with Her protection that we will reclaim the lands that we once ruled and bring ourselves out from beneath this banishment and back beneath Her benevolence.

“And is it not obvious that we have fallen from Her grace? Look at what has become of us. We have been forced to retreat from our own lands, the world becoming cold and bitter toward us. Even as we attempt to build new lives in these lands, we find ourselves plagued with disaster. We have dealt with death since we arrived, with famine as we attempted to work the earth of these new lands, with attacks from races we have never encountered before. As we strive to create peace, even more horrors are unleashed among us. We have seen the return of the sukrael to the world! Their legions attacked our lands as their presence spread, enabled by the human Wraith!”

“But what of the Winter Tree?” someone shouted from those kneeling before the basin. “What of Shaeveran?”

The member of the Flame scowled, began to pace before the basin, the white flames a vibrant backdrop. “What of him? He is shadowed himself. Has he not been touched by the sukrael? Does he not bear their mark?”

“But he brought us the Winter Tree,” a woman murmured.

“Yes, he did, and I ask you, what has it gained us? A reprieve, nothing more. It is a false gift, one meant to lull us into a sense of safety, of complacency. He has brought us the Winter Tree so that we will trust him, but it is a lie, a betrayal!”

Cries of denial rose, and Moiran nodded her approval. Not all of the Alvritshai of Rhyssal House were so easily swayed.

But the member of the Flame merely paused and smiled. “Oh, it is a lie,” he said. “The Chosen has discovered the truth. He has looked into the heart of the Tree and he has discovered that it is failing.”

He said the words quietly, but the resultant gasp from those gathered took Moiran’s breath away.

“It is failing, and at a time of great peril! The armies of the human Wraith are on the move even as we speak. They
are heading toward our lands with the intention of killing us all. And I ask, is it coincidence that the Winter Tree is failing now? Is it mere happenstance that the Tree that was planted to protect us would begin to fall at the moment when we need it most? I say no! I say it was planned all along, that Shaeveran—­touched by the sukrael, tainted by their shadow—­
intended
for the Tree to fail. He has deceived us! He gave us the Tree to convince us that his heart was true, when his real purpose was to give the sukrael and the human Wraith time to prepare, time to build up their strength and their armies.

“And he has succeeded. He has succeeded in more ways than one. Not content to deceive the Alvritshai people as a whole, he has spread his taint among the Lords of the Evant, among the nobility, as high as the Tamaell himself. Look to your own lord here in the Rhyssal House. He once was one of the faithful, his loyalty pledged to Aielan Herself when he became an acolyte of the Order. Look how he has fallen! He has been seduced by Shaeveran himself into wandering from Aielan’s path, stolen from the Order and set—­unwittingly—­on the sukrael’s path!”

Moiran hissed through clenched teeth, nearly rose in protest. Only Sylvea’s hand on her arm stilled her, kept her kneeling. Her only consolation was the fierce denial of a few of those kneeling beside her, some shaking their heads.

“You don’t believe me,” the member of the Flame said, and his voice was laden with pain. “Why should you? He is your lord. You are pledged to the Rhyssal House, and he has protected you since his ascension. He fought for you on the battlefields at the Escarpment. His family has shed its blood for you. I do not blame you for your loyalty, but do not pledge it blindly. Your lord has been deceived. The Winter Tree is a false protection, yes, but the Chosen has been gifted with a weapon and a power from Aielan Herself, one that will shift the balance of the coming war from the hands
of the human Wraith and the sukrael, from Shaeveran and his tainted blood, into that of the Alvritshai. The Chosen holds the weapon in Caercaern even now.

“But Shaeveran knows of its existence. He has used his influence over your lord to try to gain possession of it. Lord Aeren even attempted to retrieve the weapon for Shaeveran through the Lords of the Evant, but failed. That is how far your lord has fallen.”

Moiran felt nauseous as she glanced around the room, as she noted the faces of the commoners. Some were twisted with doubt, as if they could not bring themselves to believe the acolyte’s words, and yet he was an acolyte, pledged to Aielan. A few were openly angry, brows furrowed.

She turned a hostile stare on the member of the Flame and rose from her kneeling position in disgust. Sylvea hastily stood beside her.

“I’ve heard enough,” she whispered vehemently beneath her breath, turning from the assemblage toward the door.

“Can we save him?” Lotaern’s warrior acolyte said from behind them. “Can we save Lord Aeren of the Rhyssal House? I do not know. I do not think so.” His voice was laced with regret. Moiran had reached the outer doors, paused with her hand against the polished grain of the wood, listening, but she did not turn. Sylvea fidgeted beside her. “Do not count on your lord when the human Wraith and Shaeveran’s army arrives in our lands. He may have traveled too far from Aielan’s path.”

Moiran snorted and shoved against the door, blinking at the blinding sunlight after the dimness of the room even as she stumbled out into the fresh air. She could not stand the scent of the oil and smoke any longer, could not breathe the stifling air or suffer the words of the warrior acolyte. Rage boiling through her, she walked down the steps of the temple and onto the road leading back toward the manse, moving too fast, Sylvea trotting to keep up.

“He should never have been allowed to remain on Rhyssal House lands,” Moiran spat.

“What do you intend to do?” Sylvea gasped.

What could she do? She had no power to order the Rhyssal House Phalanx down to the temple to seize the acolytes or the Order of the Flame. Not even Fedaureon could order that. The temple was considered part of the Order, the ground itself now part of the equivalent of another House. It was an invasion of the Rhyssal House lands, and yet it had been sanctioned by the Evant. Any action against the temple would be declared an action against another House, practically a declaration of war.

But wasn’t this war? Weren’t the words the temple and the Order were spreading a declaration of war against Aeren and the Rhyssal House?

She grunted and shook her head. That wasn’t for her to decide. That was for Aeren to decide.