Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (57 page)
“Lord Barak will support you.”
Aeren nodded. “Without question. He is of the same mind as I regarding trade and the hostilities on the plains. But neither of us has as much power within the Evant as we’d like . . . or as we used to.”
Eraeth said nothing, but Aeren had already heard his thoughts on the descent of his House within the Evant. Part of it was due to the fact that Aeren had not yet bonded and produced an heir, and part of it was that Aeren himself was not as ruthless and ambitious as most of the other lords, especially Khalaek. His brother Aureon had been both. No one had expected Aeren to ascend to lord of the House. Which was why he’d become an acolyte in the Order.
But even that wasn’t the real reason his House had fallen within the Evant.
“It all comes back to the Escarpment,” he said with a sigh. When Eraeth merely raised one eyebrow in question, he continued. “Since the betrayal of the human King at the Escarpment, Lord Khalaek and his supporters—Lords Peloroun, Waerren, and Jydell—have ascended in the Evant, with the support of the Tamaell.”
“The Tamaell has never officially shown support for any of those lords.”
Aeren smiled slightly. Eraeth’s voice had taken on the same tone he’d used as Aeren’s tutor when he was younger. “Not aloud, no. Unspoken support. And his unspoken support, along with those four lords, gives Khalaek the majority in the Evant.” His smile faded. “He should have denounced Khalaek and the other lords who attacked King Maarten at the Escarpment the moment it occurred. The battle had ended. An alliance had been made.”
“Unless the Tamaell knew of the betrayal beforehand, unless he intended to betray the King all along.”
Aeren frowned heavily. “That is the real question, isn’t it? Did the Tamaell intend the betrayal or not? Was he part of the plan?” He met Eraeth’s steady gaze. “I wish I’d been there with the lords at the end. I wish I’d seen how it played out. Then I would know. But I was . . . elsewhere.”
Eraeth said nothing to the roughness in Aeren’s voice. “And none of the other lords know, those who were there?”
Aeren shook his head. “None who are willing to challenge the Tamaell and Khalaek openly, and none who are willing to speak bluntly in private. They are afraid of Khalaek and the power he has gained, power given to him by the Tamaell with his unspoken support.”
“So who do you need to convince to help you in the Evant with the dwarren?”
Aeren stood, suddenly restless, the memories of the battle at the Escarpment unsettling him. “Not Khalaek, obviously. And I’ve done what I can with the Tamaell already.”
“Peloroun? Waerren and Jydell?”
“Peloroun will follow Khalaek’s lead. Waerren as well. But Jydell . . . he has shown some independence recently within the Evant.”
“Which only leaves Vaersoom.”
“I’ll speak to him as well. But his lands border the dwarren lands. He has faced more attacks from the dwarren in the past thirty years than anyone else, has suffered more losses.”
“But he doesn’t support Khalaek outright.”
Aeren grunted in agreement. He moved away from his desk, from the notes and correspondence of the Evant and the running of his House.
The room was meant as a meeting room, and it was where Aeren conducted most of the business of Rhyssal House while he was in Caercaern. Ornamental carpets covered the stone floors, and tapestries and a large map filled what little wall space remained between the numerous shelves full of books and artifacts—dwarren, Alvritshai, and human—that he’d collected through the years. But tucked against one wall, in its own little alcove, rested a small table, the Rhyssal House banner hanging above. Blue cloth covered the table in rumpled folds, and on top—
On it lay the memories of his family.
His hands brushed lightly over his mother’s brooch, silver with a white inlay of marbled stone. He touched his father’s knife, ran his finger along the flat of the blade, then skipped over to his second brother’s cattan. Fingers closed over the hilt, and he picked it up, pulled the sheath free in one smooth motion, the metal humming. A familiar tension pulled his shoulders taut as he remembered holding his brother’s body at the Escarpment, Aureon still clutching this blade, even as he coughed up blood from the wound in his chest. Aeren had tried to stanch the flow, had tried to save him . . .
His knuckles turned white where they gripped the leather-wrapped handle, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he resheathed the blade and set it back in its place. He grabbed the silver- chained necklace resting beside it, closing the white-gold pendant in the shape of flames inside his fist before turning.
“Get Colin,” Aeren said. “It’s time to pay our respects to Aielan and the Light. We’re going to the Sanctuary.”
Aeren slid the white-gold flame pendant—symbol of the Order and a signal indicating his standing within the Order—over his neck outside the huge Sanctuary doors. Made entirely of banded wood, the doors glowed in the late morning sunlight, the iron gates that were closed at night already flung open, black against the white-gray of the temple walls to either side. The steps before the doors were littered with small offerings—flowers and shallow bowls of wine mostly—but the wide open plaza itself was empty. Dociern, the second sounding of the chimes, had occurred a short time before, and those who would gather for the third would not arrive for hours.
Pendant settled, Aeren hesitated.
“You believe him,” Eraeth said, eyes flickering toward Colin, standing to one side, gaping at the temple. They were speaking Alvritshai.
“Yes. And I believe it is something the Evant does not have the power to handle.”
Aeren moved to the Sanctuary doors and knocked. Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and drew him near. The two accompanying Phalanx flanked them.
After a long moment, the massive wooden doors eased open, moving smoothly, effortlessly, without sound. A frowning acolyte peered out, his gaze flickering over Aeren. “The terciern service will not begin gathering for another—” he began automatically, in a slightly irritated voice.
And then his gaze grazed the pendant on Aeren’s chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, nearly choked on it.
“I need to speak to Lotaern, the Chosen,” Aeren said. “Immediately. Tell him it regards the Order, not the Evant.”
The words startled the acolyte, who bowed in apology to Aeren. “I will find Lotaern and relay the message.”
He stepped back, pushing the door open wider as he did so, and Aeren passed through the vestibule and into the sanctuary proper. As soon as the rounded room opened up before him, lit with a thousand burning candles, the scent of tallow and incense and smoke and oil settling over him like a cloak, he felt the tension slough from his shoulders. He breathed in the heavy scents and released them with a long sigh, bowing his head at the edge of the room, at the edge of its heat, letting the chamber’s silence and calm seep through him.
Then, lifting his head, he moved toward the center of the room with purpose, to where a shallow basin stood on a low pedestal. Flames burned in the basin, roiling upward, but low. During a ceremony—one of the numerous feasts, or the bonding of a lord and lady—the basin would fill with flame, tendrils of it spilling over its edges. And during a major festival—a solstice or one of the celestial events such as an alignment or an eclipse—the fires would burn white, burn with Aielan’s Light. The floor was stained with soot around the basin’s lip, and with slow reverence, Aeren moved to this ring of shadowed darkness and knelt, bowing his head.
He found his center, pulled himself to it as he had been trained to do as one of the Order’s acolytes so many years before, and then he pulled in all of the sensations of the chamber—the smells, the soft whuffling of flames, the echoes of the tread of feet trapped in the domed space above—drew all of it in and used it to soothe the ache in his chest. An ache he’d lived with for more years than he could count, an ache that had become unbearable after the loss of his brother.
He heard the acolyte return, his sandals scraping against the stone floor, hurried, and so he murmured a prayer of thanks to Aielan, traced a finger in the greasy ash-gray soot on the floor, smudging it along one cheek. Then he stood, turning to face the acolyte as he arrived.
The acolyte bowed, again in apology. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but Lotaern said to show you to his chambers immediately.”
“You have disturbed nothing. Lead the way.”
The acolyte drew them out of the main sanctuary into the familiar corridors beyond. They passed a dining hall where acolytes were already preparing for the afternoon meal, a bustling kitchen, a smaller chamber mimicking the outer one for individual prayer by the acolytes themselves, and numerous personal chambers where the acolytes lived. Found by the members of the Order as they traveled Alvritshai lands or worked in the smaller temples scattered throughout nearly all the cities and towns, the acolytes were from all levels of Alvritshai society. Each had displayed a talent, power given to them by Aielan, or had volunteered to serve the Order like Aeren, but only those who had studied and passed through Aielan’s Light could bear the pendant Aeren wore about his neck. As they walked, as he relived a thousand memories from his time here as an acolyte, he found his hand gripping the pendant.
He would have remained here, if given a choice. Few managed to pass through Aielan’s Light unscathed. Most did not even take the risk, preferring to remain acolytes. But Aeren had needed to prove something—to Lotaern and to himself—before returning to the duties forced upon him by his House. So he’d faced Aielan’s Light, hidden deep within the halls and tunnels of the Sanctuary beneath the mountain.
They drew up before a large door, and here the acolyte knocked hesitantly. A gruff voice bellowed for them to enter, and the acolyte pulled the door open and motioned Aeren and the others through before vanishing down the corridor without looking back.
Aeren hesitated a moment. He’d spoken to Lotaern on many previous occasions, during the Sanctuary’s official ceremonies, but those meetings had occurred in the outer chamber or in one of the rooms reserved for meetings close to it. He’d never met with Lotaern here.
As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of earth and green foliage and some type of flower overwhelmed him. Every available surface of the inner room was covered with plants. They sat on tables, on pedestals, hung from the huge wooden crossbeams that supported the ceiling, and climbed trellises and lattices secured to the walls, reaching toward the sunlight that streamed in from the windows high overhead. A few of the trees bore round fruit—small oranges and bright yellow lemons.
“Come in,” Lotaern barked from the opposite side of the room, where a worktable had been shoved against the wall. He hovered over a small shrub, tsking as he turned over leaf after leaf with a troubled frown. Grumbling to himself, he moved the plant to one side and turned his attention to Aeren. His gaze skimmed over the others but halted as it fell on Colin. His brow furrowed.
“Now,” he said, “to what do I owe the honor of this unofficial visit from one of my more promising acolytes?”
Aeren motioned toward the still open doorway. “May I?”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. As one of the Phalanx moved to close the door, then remained there to guard it, Aeren met Lotaern’s dark gaze squarely and said, “I come because of the sarenavriell . . . and the sukrael.”
Lotaern’s body went rigid, and all emotion drained from his face. “The sarenavriell.”
“And the sukrael,” Aeren repeated. He realized he’d shifted his stance slightly, that Eraeth and the other Phalanx had done so as well, on guard now, wary. Because Lotaern had not reacted the way Aeren thought he would. “You aren’t surprised.”
Lotaern didn’t move. “I
am
surprised. I did not expect you to come here and mention the sarenavriell. I assumed this would concern the Evant and the summons sent by the Tamaell. Obviously, it regards your recent return and whatever news you have brought with you.”
am
surprised. I did not expect you to come here and mention the sarenavriell. I assumed this would concern the Evant and the summons sent by the Tamaell. Obviously, it regards your recent return and whatever news you have brought with you.”
“And yet,” Aeren repeated, “you aren’t surprised.”
Lotaern said nothing, still motionless, eyes unreadable. And then he smiled. A grim smile. “You read me too easily, Lord Aeren. Not many within the Evant can do that.”
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