Leaves of Flame (8 page)

“When did you first notice the storms?” he asked after a long moment.

“A little over two weeks ago.”

Fingers aching with the cold, Colin moved across the roof toward the doorway. He heard the Chosen, Vaeren, and the second guard following, the light of the lanterns spilling his shadow out in front of him.

“What do you intend to do?” Lotaern asked as they entered the warmth of the Sanctuary, the guards closing the doors behind them.

Colin began massaging his hands as the Chosen took the lead and they descended into the halls and corridors of the Sanctuary proper. “First, I intend to get warm,” he said, snapping his hands briskly to increase the blood flow. “Then I intend to visit Lord Aeren.”

He smiled at Lotaern’s irritated glance.

The irritation did not taint the Chosen’s voice when he spoke. “And the storms?”

Colin’s smile faltered. He hated to admit it, but Lotaern had been correct. “I’ll have to verify that the Wells have been untouched, as you said.”

They reached the main corridor, the central chamber of worship for the Alvritshai and its acolytes opening up before them, its cavernous heights lit with thousands of candles.
The chamber smelled of oil and smoke and incense, and echoed faintly with the scuffing of sandals from acolytes moving through the corridors and hallways above.

Lotaern paused, then said, “You won’t do it alone. You’ll have an escort of the Order of the Flame with you.”

“I
DON’T NEED AN ESCORT,” Colin protested.

“But you will have one.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.

“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.

The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the knife that you carry.” Lotaern did not drop his gaze from Colin to the satchel slung across his chest where the knife rested, wrapped in chain mail, but Colin tensed anyway. “That knife may be the only weapon we have against the Wraiths, the only object that can kill them. It cannot be lost. If you travel alone and the Wraiths find you…” He let the thought trail off, then added, “We cannot allow it to fall into the Wraiths’ hands.”

Colin’s knuckles turned white and with conscious effort he forced himself to relax. He’d spent the last one hundred and twenty-­seven years since the Accord more or less alone.
He’d traveled the land, worked with the Alvritshai, the dwarren, the Faelehgre, searched for the Wells and created the Trees, but almost always by himself, isolated, withdrawn from the world. Even the time spent with Aeren, Moiran, their son Fedaureon, and Eraeth eventually ended, the Lord of House Rhyssal drawn into the politics of the Evant, Moiran focusing on their new son and the Ilvaeren and the economic stability of the House. Colin had found himself visiting them far less often than immediately after the Accord, preferring the seclusion of the Ostraell and the white ruins of Terra’nor.

But Lotaern was correct: the knife had to be protected, guarded. Entrusting it to one person, even himself, could not be allowed. His isolation would have to end, unless he gave the knife to someone else, and that he would not do. Not until it had been tested and proven effective. Not until another weapon like it could be made.

And not until Walter was dead.

His shoulders slumped, although he let his anger darken his face, allowed his reluctance to tinge his voice. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll allow an escort of the Order. No more than four, I’ll want to travel as swiftly as possible. And they will follow my orders only.”

And if the need arose, he could always abandon them. They could not hold him prisoner, could not contain him.

He saw the same thought flicker through Lotaern’s eyes, but the Chosen turned to Vaeren. “Assemble the group. You’ll lead, but use only members of the Flame. Take whatever you feel is necessary from the Order.”

“I’ll want to take Siobhaen.” When Lotaern hesitated, Vaeren added, “She’s the best warrior you have, the most skilled with the Light.”

Lotaern grimaced. “Very well.”

“Also Boraeus and Petraen.”

The Chosen’s eyebrows rose. “Both brothers?”

“The two work well together.”

“Fine. Send word and have them gather here by dawn.”

“No.”

Both Lotaern and Vaeren turned toward him in surprise. Colin knew it was petty, but he didn’t like the sudden loss of control he felt. “If you want me to have an escort, assemble it now. I’ll give you an hour.”

“There’s no reason—­” Lotaern began, but Colin halted him with a look.

Vaeren nodded, sent his fellow member of the Flame off in search of the two brothers, then gave Colin a threatening glance before stalking off into the depths of the Sanctuary, leaving Lotaern and Colin alone.

Colin watched his retreating back. “He doesn’t approve of me.”

“He doesn’t revere you, as so many within the Order do, acolytes and Flame alike. He sees you as a threat to the Order, to me.”

“Do you?”

Lotaern met Colin’s gaze, held it for a long moment. “You are not Alvritshai, not part of the Evant, and you have your own motivations, your own agenda. But the greatest threat you represent is that you are… unpredictable.”

Colin smiled. “Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.”

Colin turned away from Lotaern’s scowl and moved into the depths of the main chamber. One of the acolytes looked up from his prayers at the scuff of his feet on the flagstone floor, then reached forward, rubbing his fingers in the soot that had stained the low stone pedestal beneath the wide bowl, spillover from when the bowl was filled with fire. He smudged the soot onto his cheek beneath his eye, as Colin had seen Aeren do so long ago, when he’d first met Lotaern. Then the acolyte rose and drifted from the chamber.

Colin moved to the edge of the bowl, where the acolyte
had knelt, and stared into the empty depths. The scent of oil was stronger here, as if it had leached into the stone of the basin. The contours of the room amplified the sounds surrounding him, but blurred them as well. He heard murmurs from the depths of the Sanctuary as acolytes conversed, the scuffle of feet, and the flutter of wings from a bird trapped in the upper reaches of the chamber.

He glanced up and caught sight of the bird as it flitted from one of the stone-­carved arches above to another, settling in a corner niche, its brown coloring blending into the gray of the stone.

“I never intended the Winter Tree to be a burden,” he said suddenly, his voice louder than he expected in the depths of the room. “I thought you’d welcome the protection it would bring the Alvritshai from the Shadows. I thought I’d have your support.”

Behind, he felt Lotaern still, then shift forward into the chamber. In the eighty-­odd years since Colin had arrived with the Winter Tree’s seed in hand, they had rarely spoken of that day in the Evant. Even while working on the knife with Aielan’s Light they had carefully skirted the topic.

When the Chosen finally spoke, his voice was guarded. “I did welcome the protection, as did all of the acolytes and the Order of the Flame. The years without it, with the sukrael attacking Alvritshai lands, were horrible. The Flame and Phalanx did their best to protect the Alvritshai, but the sukrael were too difficult to track and attacked at random, without warning. The Phalanx could not harm them, their swords useless, and so they were relegated to evacuating towns and villages and cities when necessary, or diverting the sukrael with their own lives. And the Flame…”

He’d moved into the periphery of Colin’s sight, and Colin saw him shudder. “I went there with them, of course. We tried to use Aielan’s Light against them, and it worked to
some extent. The Light burns them, harms them. But to be effective we needed to prepare, which meant we needed to know where the sukrael were going to attack ahead of time. If we arrived after the attack had begun, the sukrael would simply flee before we could bring Aielan’s Light to bear.” He shook his head, mouth pulled down in a grim frown. “It was hideous: the loss of life, the panic of the people within the sukrael’s hunting ground, the uncertainty. The Order couldn’t offer anyone solace.”

He turned to look at Colin directly. “You brought them solace with the Winter Tree. You allowed them to return to their land and resume their lives. But the way in which you brought the Winter Tree.” His face tightened with anger. “You should have brought it to me. I should have been the one to present it to the Evant. Its power obviously fell within the domain of the Order, not the Evant, not Lord Aeren nor the Tamaell. I should have been given time to plan, to find the best location for its planting. It should never have been placed in the center of Caercaern, in the marketplace!”

Colin’s gaze had dropped from the bird toward Lotaern. He didn’t like the assumption of authority he heard in the Chosen’s voice, nor the fact that Lotaern felt his authority rose above that of the Tamaell. “The placement in the marketplace was a mistake. I did not realize that it would quicken so fast.”

“That doesn’t matter now. It was planted in the marketplace, and has since been walled off, the plaza now a garden sanctuary maintained by the Order.”

Controlled by the Order,
Colin thought. Aeren had told him how Lotaern had sealed access to the Tree from the Evant, how he’d established Wardens to care for it even as the Flame guarded it and kept it from the Alvritshai, all with the sanction of the Evant, most of whose lords welcomed and feared the Tree’s power at the same time. It had
become another way for Lotaern to control the Alvritshai, and through the lords, the Evant.

If Lotaern expected Colin to apologize for bringing the Tree to Aeren first, or to the Tamaell, he would be disappointed.

They heard Vaeren’s approach, his boots thumping through the chamber, moving swiftly, accompanied by the footfalls of another. Both the Chosen and Colin turned as the caitan of the Order of the Flame appeared in the foyer, his gaze flickering with irritation before he caught sight of them near the bowl. He and the woman, Siobhaen, approached, both dressed in the armor of the Flame, wrists banded with metal, the heavy cloth over their chests emblazoned with the stylized white flames of Aielan, boot heels harsh on the flagstone floor, although Colin noticed that Siobhaen’s tread was much softer than Vaeren’s. Siobhaen’s long black hair was pulled back into a braid behind her head and she caught Colin with a sharp, searching glare, her light brown eyes flicking up and down once. Colin felt as if he’d been sized up and dismissed in the space of a heartbeat and straightened in indignation. Her features were narrow, made more severe by having her hair pulled back, but softened by small silver earrings.

Vaeren had changed into different armor as well, something more suited to traveling long distances. His hair had been tied back with a length of leather. “I’ve ordered the acolytes to bring horses to the main plaza for us, readied with supplies,” he said, ignoring Colin completely.

Before Lotaern could answer, two more members of the Flame appeared. Dressed like Vaeren, they came up behind the caitan and nodded toward Lotaern formally. The Chosen had straightened, assuming the mantle of his power. They were younger than Vaeren, but obviously related, their eyes the same dark gray.

“Is everything prepared?”

“No,” Siobhaen said. “Not yet. There is still one more thing to do.”

When the brothers shot her a curious glance, she moved toward the bowl, knelt on one knee, and lowered her head. Colin could hear her murmuring beneath her breath.

When he looked up, he caught the brothers rolling their eyes. Vaeren gave them a look and with sudden solemnity they both knelt.

A moment later, Siobhaen reached forward and smudged soot along her cheek, the two brothers following suit. Then all three rose.

“Now we are ready,” Vaeren said.

The entire group moved to the main entrance, acolytes pulling open the doors as they approached. Gusts of winter air pushed through, and Colin hoped that the acolytes had thought to include warmer clothes in his own set of supplies. Even as he thought it, one of the acolytes stepped forward and presented him with a second satchel. Inside, he found clothing of an Alvritshai cut and the Order’s colors, a bedroll, bowls and utensils, and other assorted tools for the road.

He pulled the clothing free. “I’ll need to change,” he said to Vaeren and Lotaern.

The Chosen motioned him away. As the acolyte showed him to a room, he and Vaeren spoke to each other quietly, too low for Colin to catch.

A few minutes later, he joined the Order of the Flame outside in the Sanctuary’s plaza, the stone obelisks surrounding them on all sides. The Alvritshai clothing fit, even though Colin fidgeted with its unfamiliar cut, a little too tight in the shoulders for his taste.

Lotaern had just finished a blessing, the Flame members rising. He turned to Colin as they mounted the waiting horses. “Find out what’s causing the storms, Shaeveran.”