Leaves of Flame

He could feel the power slipping outward from his grasp, glanced up to see shock and horror dawning on the faces around him. The crowd pulled farther back as tendrils of light began flickering up from the stone around him. As the light intensified, Colin scanned the area, noticing that the light curling upward around him was centered on one spot, one location.

He stepped forward, clearing the stone of the plaza in a wide circle. Then he fell to his knees, setting his staff to one side.

The light emerging from the ground came in sheets, rising like steam or mist.

Lifting the seed toward the sky with both hands, he released the power of the Lifeblood, the Confluence, and the White Fire inside him. It surged through his arms, into the seed, and the last restraints on the power locked inside it collapsed.

With a harsh cry, he drove the shaft of the seed into the stone before him, felt it pierce deep. Beneath his hand, the knot atop the staff writhed. The pale white bark split beneath his palm with a crack of splintering wood. He hissed and lurched away. Grabbing his staff, he continued backing up. White light licked up around him, flowed through him, touching and tasting, rising higher as the stone beneath his feet trembled. It recognized its creator.

The crowd gasped when the seed quickened and the sapling that sprouted from it shot skyward, higher than the tendrils of light, growing in the space of heartbeats, seeking sunlight. The sapling thickened, the bole of an immense tree emerging, its bark dark, nearly black, limbs thrusting outward from the trunk like spears, splitting, branching. The groan of stressed wood filled the plaza, punctuated by sharp cracks and sizzling, hissing pops. And still the immense tree strained upward. Roots pierced the stone at the trunk’s base, and dove back underground, grinding the stone to dust as the trunk thickened and spread. Buds appeared on the thousands of branches, burst open between one breath and the next, thick silvery leaves unfurling. Colin stepped back once, twice, tilted his head so that he could see the branches reaching outward, obscuring the sky.…

DAW Books Presents

A bold new fantasy series from

Benjamin Tate:

WELL OF SORROWS

LEAVES OF FLAME

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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First Printing, January 2012

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

This book is dedicated to George,
who puts up with all of the geekery
with a mere shake of his head.

Most books require some blood, sweat, and tears from the writer, but this one asked that of my beta readers as well. They suffered through nearly six entire chapters of utter dreck until I finally realized that
it wasn’t working
and started all over again. Those intrepid souls were: Ariel Guzman, Patricia Bray, Tes Hilaire, April Steenberg, David Fortier, Jake Philion, and Dan DeVito. Thank you for your patience.

Of course, after they beat it into shape, it got mauled by my editor, Sheila Gilbert. Once again, thanks for the insight and for pushing me to think beyond what I’ve already written and seeing the larger picture. The books are much better because of this.

Then there’s the family—mother, brothers, sisters-in-law, partner, grandparents, and now nephews. Thanks for being there for moral support… and for a few sales as well. *grin*

And finally, thank you, readers. I hope you enjoy the book. If you’d like to find out more about me or my books, check out
www.benjamintate.com
. You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter (bentateauthor).

C
OLIN PATRIS HARTEN—­known as Shaeveran by the Alvritshai, also called Shade—­slid through the grasses of the plains, the world unnaturally still around him. He carried a cedar staff given to him by the heart of the forest, its power twining around and through him. A satchel hung from his shoulder, steadied by his other hand. He moved swiftly, head bent, time slowed around him but not halted. He was too exhausted to stop the flow completely, or to press beyond the barrier and into the past. He wanted to beat the Alvritshai stronghold of Caercaern before the end of night, and he’d already traveled far. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could slow the flow of time to make the journey quicker. He’d grown in power over the last forty years—­gained in strength as he used the Lifeblood to battle the ever growing threat of the Wraiths and the Shadows, and immersing himself in the cleansing heart of the White Flame and the healing waters of the Confluence—­but there were limits.

And prices paid.

He was reaching the extent of his strength. He could hear it in his own ragged breathing, could feel it in the pounding of his heart and the humming of the world around him. Time pushed at him, tried to force him back into his
natural state. But he wanted to reach Caercaern before the Alvritshai lords called the Evant for the last time and the lords dispersed to theirown lands for the winter months. He
needed
to meet with them, to get them to accept the responsibility for what he carried in his satchel.

The survival of the Alvritshai—­of all of the races of Wrath Suvane: Alvritshai, dwarren, and human—­depended on it.

So he shoved the increasing pressure of time back with a grunt, felt it give beneath him even as a shudder of weariness passed through his chest. He ignored it, focused on the plains ahead, on the moonlit silver of the grasses and the brittle stars in the sky. Folds in the land appeared as shadows, and by the growing darkness he could tell that he was getting closer to Alvritshai lands. He walked upon dwarren lands now, on earth he’d traveled as a child over a hundred years ago, when his parents had abandoned Portstown for the unknown wilds of the grasses to the east.

Those unknown wilds had killed them—­and everyone else in their ill-­fated wagon train—­except for Colin.

And Walter.

Colin frowned at himself and shrugged the disturbing memories away. It had happened a long time ago, in what felt like another world, another lifetime. Wrath Suvane had changed since then. The Accord he had helped establish between the three races had held, although tenuously, strained by the continued attacks of the Shadows and the work of the Wraiths to bring about the awakening of the Wells. The dwarren retained their claim to the plains, the Alvritshai the lands to the north and the mountain reaches of Hauttaeren, and the humans the coastal region.

The Shadows and the Wraiths maintained their hold on the forests of Ostraell.

But in the past forty years, all of the races had grown. The Alvritshai had branched out along the mountains, both
east and west, carving new strongholds into their depths even though the encroaching ice sheets to the north continued to build, their original homeland still locked away beneath the frigid cold. The dwarren continued to survive beneaththe plains in their extensive warrens, although they’d begun building stone and cloth citiesat the mouths of the most prominent entrances to facilitate trade. Colin had passed one such citya few hours before, a caravan of twenty wagons headed toward its vast towers along the main road from the human province of Corsair. The humans had expanded the most, populating the coast at first, but spreading south and then east, along the sheer cliffs of the Escarpment that provided a natural boundary between dwarren and human lands. They’d spread far, although they had not yet reached the edges of the desert to the east.