Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (63 page)
But the introduction of the Alvritshai and then the humans onto the plains had changed everything. The dwarren had been forced to live aboveground more and more, the threat from both foreign races too great. It became inefficient to keep supplies and resources below, and once the Riders shifted to the surface, so did the women and the trade. Within a decade, the tent cities gained limited permanence, and from there they only grew.
Garius ignored the tents and the people and angled his gaezel toward the dark depths of the entrance instead. The well-trampled ramp sloped downward, and he ducked his head as he passed through into the shade beneath. Riders lined both sides within, most standing near a double line of giant pillars embedded in the walls on either side, supporting arches overhead embellished with ancient stonework. The stone between the successive arches was rough and unworked, rigged to collapse and seal the warren if the dwarren destroyed the pillars. But this defense passed by in the space of a heartbeat, Garius not slowing his descent into the massive tunnel. The sound of Shea and the rest of his Riders increased behind him and echoed out ahead. Tunnels branched off to either side, much smaller in diameter, intersections lit with metal-worked stands containing wide flat bowls of burning oil. The walls were lined with stone, buttressed with supports at regular intervals, the stone shifting in color until it had run the entire spectrum found on the plains, including the vivid reds from the desert near the Painted Sands Clan to the east. As above, fellow Riders and dwarren transporting goods dodged out of their way as the roar of Garius’ gaezel reached them.
Then the worked stone ended, the walls and floor abruptly white and smooth, no supports visible. This was the stone of the Ancients, the ones who came before, the ones who gave the Lands to the People, to guard and protect. The rounded edges of the tunnel above became sharp rectangular angles, although the tunnels were still lit with the basins of oil.
When the stands of flame began appearing closer together, Garius pulled back on the gaezel’s horns and slowed.
Moments later, the Ancients’ tunnel ended, opening up into the true city of Shadow Moon, a rounded room that could enclose the entire tent city above. Like that of Thousand Springs, the wide floor swept away to a massive pool, the river cascading down from the circular opening high above, wider than the tunnel they’d just left, frothing in the pool before spilling over its edge into another channel and funneling down into a second circular tunnel. The open holes of the dwarren’s clefts surrounded the walls on all sides, some lit from within by lantern light, but more than half of them dark and empty when once they were crowded, teeming with families. Dwarren scrambled from level to level in the lowest tiers, using stairs cut into the stone walls, but most of the dwarren were on the floor, the wide plaza choked with blankets spread with wares as women bartered for goods and children dodged and cavorted around them, laughing and screaming as they played. Garius saw earthen bowls painted with geometric designs, woven blankets with depictions of Ilacqua and the Four Winds, spears and bows, fabric, produce, and butchered animals, all offered up for the women’s examination. The chamber echoed with a dull throb from the rushing water and the noise of the marketplace, dampened by the immensity of the cavern.
Garius’ attention was caught by the waiting Riders at the far side of the thoroughfare ending near the great pool. Mannet, clan chief of Shadow Moon, stood with three other clan chiefs, including Harticur from the Red Sea Clan—the most powerful clan at the moment—each with his own shaman and at least four of his own Riders. It appeared that the clan chief from Painted Sands, Adammern, had arrived shortly before Garius. His mounts had been herded to one side. Only two clans were not present: Broken Waters and Claw Lake.
Garius frowned as he led his group toward the others. Broken Waters was the clan farthest from Shadow Moon, so it wasn’t unexpected they had not yet arrived, but Claw Lake lay adjacent to Shadow Moon. Its clan should have been one of the first to arrive.
Pulling his gaezel to a halt, Garius dismounted, heard the rest of his group doing the same behind him. Smoothing the tangles of his beard, he stepped toward the other clan chiefs and felt his son and Oudan, his shaman, falling into step behind him.
Mannet broke off his conversation with the others as Garius approached. “Garius, Chief of the Thousand Springs Clan, the People of Shadow Moon welcome you.”
Garius nodded in return. “May Ilacqua blaze down upon you and the Four Winds keep your granaries full.”
Mannet grunted. “And yours.” Pleasantries complete, his face darkened. “Why have you called a Gathering? We are nearing the end of harvest and must prepare for the Tesinthe and the blessing of the Lands for renewal.”
Behind him, the chiefs from Silver Grass and Painted Sands grumbled in agreement. Sipa stood as far from Mannet as possible and shot the clan chief a hostile glare. Their clans had warred for generations across the boundary of the Tiquano River. Both Harticur and Adammern were separated for a similar reason. Garius could feel the tension on the air, although all the clan chiefs were respecting the sanctity of the Gathering.
He suddenly realized that getting them to agree to meet with the Alvritshai and to choose one of their group to be the Cochen might be harder than he’d thought. He needed to make them understand the seriousness of the request for this Gathering, serious enough that they needed to set aside their conflicts.
Running his fingers through the beads in his beard, he drew himself upright and in a deep voice said, “This discussion requires the use of the keeva, and the presence of our shamans.”
Mannet’s eyes widened, and a growling murmur rumbled through the rest of the group. Use of the keeva and the presence of the shamans meant the words would be heard directly by the gods, the actions of the clan chiefs judged by them. It was used only for the most powerful ceremonies and rites or to commune with the gods before the clan chief made crucial decisions.
“Hochen!” Mannet barked, and his shaman—older than Oudan by at least ten years—shuffled forward, the plains snake tails on his spear rattling as he moved. He glared at Garius with a flattened, wrinkled face. “Prepare the keeva.”
Hochen smacked his lips together, mumbled something incomprehensible, then began shuffling off toward the wide doorway of the ritual chamber at the base of the tiered clefts near the cascade. Oudan and the rest of the shamans moved to help, some already beginning the blessing and the litany that would seal the oval chamber from evil spirits and prying ears and open it up to the gods.
“I’ve left a small group of acolytes behind in the archives attempting to reconstruct the research that Benedine has been doing for the past few months, but it will be difficult.”
Aeren paused in the act of slicing a piece of gaezel meat and stared at Lotaern, who sat across from him at the low, portable table set up on the grass of the plains. They’d traveled with the Alvritshai envoy the full length of Lord Peloroun’s lands and were about to enter the land that the dwarren claimed as their own. Aeren hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to Lotaern since they’d departed Caercaern, the Chosen of the Order having first dined with nearly all of the other lords who outranked Aeren, starting with the Tamaell. Aeren could have insisted, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to how closely he’d been working with Lotaern recently.
Setting his knife aside, Aeren dipped his hands into a tiny bowl of water and dried them on a towel set to one side. “Why is that?”
“Because following Benedine’s logic—what thought led to which reference, what material he looked at first—is nearly impossible. He looked at hundreds of texts, including the Scripts, but most of those lead to dead ends. We don’t know which of those texts were important, and finding them will take time.”
Aeren nodded. “I see.”
Lotaern gave him a strange look. “You’ve been rather quiet. What is it that concerns you?”
Aeren caught Lotaern’s eye and thought back to the day the envoy had departed Caercaern. All the lords had gathered in the plaza before the Sanctuary before dociern, as the Tamaell had requested. Only the Chosen and his acolytes had yet to arrive. When the bells of the Sanctuary began to chime, everyone on the plaza turned toward the doors to the Sanctuary, which had already begun to open. But unlike a typical dociern ceremony, the acolytes who emerged didn’t begin drifting among those gathered to offer up blessings and prayers or give alms and accept donations. Instead, the Chosen of the Order stepped out into the sunlight in robes of vivid white. Four files of acolytes marched out behind him, dressed in light armor, every footfall in sync, moving in precise columns that lined up behind Lotaern in formation. Two of the acolyte warriors carried tall banners, a white flame against a blue background, signifying Aielan’s Light. They fell into place on either side of Lotaern. Behind the Chosen, more acolytes emerged, this time leading a slew of horses and two wagons. One of them led a white horse to Lotaern’s side and handed over the reins.
The spectacle had drawn a murmur from the gathered Alvritshai, from the lords and the Phalanx. Aeren hadn’t realized the Order had their own warriors. The Order
shouldn’t
have warriors. Were they simply for show? Or could they actually wield the cattans they carried?
shouldn’t
have warriors. Were they simply for show? Or could they actually wield the cattans they carried?
Aeren drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I did not realize that the Order had trained warriors. It didn’t when I was an acolyte.”
Lotaern stilled for a moment, then set his own knife down and finished chewing before answering. “There is nothing in the Scripts that forbids it. In fact, there are references to the Order having its own army, the Order of the Flame, brethren who felt that Aielan and her Light must be defended at all costs.”
“And is that what these acolytes—this Order of the Flame—are for? Defense?”
“Yes. For the defense of Aielan and the Order, to help protect us against those who would oppose the Light. And against those creatures like the sukrael and the Wraiths who abhor the Light, who may seek to destroy it.”
Aeren met Lotaern’s gaze. “You must have begun training the members of the Order of the Flame years ago to have them prepared at the level I have seen on this march. Training that began long before the sukrael or the Wraiths were an issue.”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I would have thought that you, of all of the lords in the Evant, would be supportive of the Order and the Flame.”
“I do support the Order,” Aeren said, “but I am also Lord of House Rhyssal. The Order was never intended to have its own Phalanx. It’s how the balance of power between the Evant and the Order remains stable. It’s how the Tamaell retains his power and keeps the Order separate from the Evant. The Order was never intended to be a rival to the Evant, the Chosen a rival to the Tamaell. It is intended to serve the people, to offer them solace and guidance in their everyday lives and to give them hope in times of strife. I cannot be the only lord in this envoy who has expressed concern over this.”
“No, you are not. But I believe that you will find the Flame useful before all this is done. They are skilled at more than swordplay. They have other talents. And I do not intend to oppose the Tamaell or use the Flame against any of the Houses. But the world is changing. The arrival of the humans was only the beginning. Now we have the sukrael, the antruel, the Wraiths . . . I do not see an end to the changes in sight. The Order is simply preparing.”
Aeren didn’t answer, the tension between them thick. He knew that some within the Order had power like that which Colin displayed, although not as great. He wanted to ask how Lotaern had trained his contingent of warrior acolytes without anyone in the Evant learning of it, but he already knew. He’d been in the depths of the Sanctuary himself when he’d gone to pass through Aielan’s Light to earn his pendant. He’d seen the empty chambers deep within the mountain where the Alvritshai had once lived. Lotaern could have trained an army ten times this size within those halls, and no one outside the Order would have known.
The thought sent fingers of unease prickling along his arms.
But Lotaern’s small force—a hundred and twenty acolytes altogether—was the least of Aeren’s concerns at the moment, and it was not the main source of the tension and unease that had preoccupied him since they’d reached the edge of Alvritshai lands.
Aeren glanced out toward the falling darkness and the rest of the entourage heading to the plains. Nearby, Eraeth and Colin sat beside one of the many fires lit for cooking and for the coming night, Eraeth drilling Colin in the Alvritshai language, using the light to show him the corresponding words on scraps of parchment. A few of the Rhyssal Phalanx had gathered around to watch and were tossing in their own contributions. Ever since the trek across the plains and the meeting with the dwarren, the Phalanx had taken Colin under the Rhyssal wings, more than even declaring him Rhyssal-aein warranted. They’d begun training him with the knife he carried in his bag, spending hours after the convoy halted, sparring until the light faded. Beyond them, the convoy stretched out into the distance along a swath of trampled and wheel-rutted grass, so large he could barely discern Tamaell Fedorem’s banners at the head of the column. They were arranged according to their power in the Evant, the Tamaell at the front, followed by Lords Khalaek and Peloroun, Waerren and Jydell, Vaersoom and Aeren, and finally Barak.
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