Leaves of Flame (30 page)

“Why not!” Siobhaen’s grip tightened.

He turned a somber gaze on her. “Because we won’t be traveling on the surface. We’ll be traveling underground.”

Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony of his House holdings in Caercaearn and stared out across the tiered city as it came to life. Lanterns were doused by patrols as the sun dawned on the horizon, gray light filtering through the peaks of the Hauttaeren Mountains where they dipped
southward east of the city, purple with distance. The Sanctuary chimes rang utiern.

Aeren’s thoughts turned toward Lotaern and the Order of Aielan. He frowned, one hand rising to grip the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, a symbol of all that he had achieved while an acolyte within the Order, before his father and brother died on the battlefields of the plains and forced him to return to ascend as Lord of the Rhyssal House. If he had remained in the Order, would he support Lotaern now, in whatever power play he was making?

He didn’t know. It would have been a question he posed to Eraeth, a musing that the man who had practically raised him would have discussed with him in the early hours of dawn before the day began, but his Protector was not here. He felt the loss as a pang in his chest, a hollowness that he had not realized he would experience when he had given the Phalanx guardsman permission to accompany Colin.

Eraeth had been more of an integral part of his life than he had known.

A bitter, ironic smile turned his lips. He should have known. He could not remember a time when Eraeth had
not
been there, except for his years spent in the Sanctuary as an acolyte. His earliest childhood memory was of reaching for his father’s sword—­the Rhyssal House sword—­and having his Protector slap his hand away. He’d glared at the young guard who’d been hovering over him, even as he rubbed the ache from his hand, and vowed revenge. Days later, he’d lined the guard’s ceremonial helmet with black ink. It hadn’t quite dried yet when Eraeth had donned it for the Licaeta House’s arrival that afternoon.

It had taken two more years before he’d outgrown the pranks and come to a grudging acceptance of Eraeth’s presence at his side at all times. He’d experienced pain when he’d left the Protector at the doors of the Sanctuary to begin his studies there, but nothing like the loss he felt now.
That pain had lasted a day, perhaps two, before he’d set it aside to focus on the Scripts and his lessons.

This pain was worse. Much worse. Eraeth had departed Artillien with Colin and Siobhaen over a month before and he still found himself turning to ask Eraeth a question at odd moments. He could feel the emptiness of the balcony and the room behind him even now.

He let his hand drop from the pendant and turned, stepping into the inner room where a servant had left a tray of fruit and a plate of scrambled eggs—­a commoner’s dish he’d grown fond of while trading up and down the Provincial coast. The smell turned his stomach this morning, but he splashed a hot sauce imported from Andover over the eggs and forced himself to eat.

He had a meeting with Tamaell Thaedoren.

“Wait here. The Tamaell will be with you shortly.”

Aeren nodded and the servant who’d escorted him to the audience chamber departed, leaving the door open. Two of the White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s personal guard, were at the door, along with Aeren’s own escort. Hiroun stood with his back against the far wall of the corridor looking in. As the sole surviving Rhyssal guardsman from the journey to the White Wastes—­aside from Eraeth, of course—­Aeren had added him to his personal escort. He’d found the House Phalanx member to be competent at handling the nuisances of a lord’s schedule, as well as its abrupt changes.

At Hiroun’s questioning look, he smiled and shook his head, turning away to scan the audience chamber, noting the changes Thaedoren had made since he’d ascended the throne. His father, Fedorem, had kept the Tamaell’s chambers in Caercaern sparsely furnished, with chairs, tables, and side tables surrounded by a few urns, tapestries, and pedestals holding statuettes or other artwork. Most of the art had
been chosen by Moiran, he’d learned. Those touches permeated the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien now.

Here in the highest tier of Caercaern, all traces of Moiran’s or Fedorem’s touch were gone. A wide oak table stained a dark color was surrounded by eight similarly stained chairs; a brass platter containing fronds of ferns and an arrangement of flowers filled its center. Similar arrangements lined the two side tables, interspersed with gold candleholders and assorted gold objects. Dried greenery hung from the walls, evergreen boughs tied at their base and fanned out to frame dangling pine cones or seed pods from the fall. The scent of cedar filled the room.

It did not feel like Thaedoren; the Tamaell had little patience for such things. Aeren sensed the new Tamaea’s hand in this. Reanne came from Licaeta, had been raised in the forested hills below the mountains, and from what Aeren had heard had not wanted to leave her own House lands. But a marriage into the ruling House of Resue would not have been something she could deny; nor could the Tamaea reside anywhere but Caercaern. It appeared that Reanne had made every effort to bring her homeland to Caercaern with her after the official bonding last summer.

“She has taken over everything here in Caercaern during the winter.”

Aeren turned to find Tamaell Thaedoren standing in the doorway, flanked by two White Phalanx.

The youth that had ridden hard with Aeren to meet with the dwarren and convince them that the Alvritshai intended peace those long years ago was gone. Aeren had thought the Tamaell Presumptive back then irresponsible, arrogant, and unable to set aside his bitterness over his relationship with his father to act in the best interests of the Alvritshai. He had been wrong.

Thaedoren had brought the dwarren to the battlefield against his father’s wishes, then worked with them to form
the Accord after his father’s death. He had been instrumental in forging the alliance that had held for over a hundred years, and during those years had managed the Evant and the Alvritshai lords with a firm hand. Aeren had not agreed with every decision the Tamaell had made during that time, had been vehemently opposed to some on the Evant floor, but that did not lessen the respect he’d come to hold for him. The years, and the trials, had left their mark. The proud youth he’d first seen had been tempered, face scarred with the political and physical battles he’d waged since then. Weariness edged his eyes, lined his cheekbones, dulled his black hair. He smiled and motioned Aeren to take one of the chairs around the table.

“You’ve come to Caercaern early,” Thaedoren said, taking the opposite seat while his escort moved deeper into the room. “The Lords of the Evant are not expected back here for another three weeks.”

“There are a few issues that I felt needed to be brought to your attention immediately, before their arrival.”

Thaedoren’s smile faltered and he leaned back. “I thought it unlikely you came simply for a family visit.”

“I would have brought your mother and half brother if so. I left them in Artillien.” He met Thaedoren’s gaze. “For their own safety.”

Thaedoren tensed, the change nearly imperceptible. The smile was gone.

His gaze flicked toward the open door and the hall outside, then the two White Phalanx standing inside the room, before returning to Aeren. “Where is your Protector?”

Aeren grimaced. “He is with Shaeveran.”

Thaedoren hesitated, then motioned to one of the ­Phalanx. The guard strode to the door to the audience chamber and said something soft to those outside, then made to close the door. Before he could, Hiroun stepped forward into the room. The White Phalanx guardsman glanced toward ­Thaedoren,
but at the Tamaell’s nod allowed the Rhyssal House guard to remain.

When the door had been closed, Thaedoren leaned forward. “What word do you bring? Why would my mother need to be kept safe in Artillien?” His tone was that of the Tamaell, demanding an answer.

Aeren drew in a deep breath to gather his thoughts, then said bluntly, “There are two threats—­Lotaern and the Wraiths.”

Thaedoren didn’t react. “Go on.”

“Lotaern has always been a threat. He craves power, political power rather than strictly that which he wields as the Chosen of the Order of Aielan.”

Thaedoren waved a hand dismissively. “This is not new. He has gained much since the rule of my father, although I have tried to curb him where I could, with the help of you and our allies. Some would say that your attempts to block him come from a personal grudge against him, that it has nothing to do with the interests of the Alvritshai or the Evant. You defied him openly when Shaeveran brought us the Winter Tree, when he planted it in the marketplace without the consent of the Evant.”

The hint of warning in his voice could not be missed and Aeren bowed his head. “That was not planned.”

“So you have said before. And I’m certain my mother would back your claim. Regardless, it still gives credence to the accusations that you have your own agenda, your own purpose. And part of that purpose is to oppose Lotaern.”

Aeren’s head snapped up. “I oppose Lotaern because he strives to gain power that does not belong to him. The Order has no place within the Evant, and yet he wishes to be treated as a lord, as if he ruled his own House. He gained hold of his own Phalanx in the battlefields at the Escarpment with his Order of the Flame, and since then he has reached for more. He is now asked to attend all of the meetings
of the Evant, has his own voice in those proceedings. He is a lord in every respect except title. That is what I oppose. There should be a division between the secular and the spiritual, between politics and religion.”

Thaedoren waited a moment, allowing Aeren to regain control. “I do not disagree, although there is little I can do about it. He gained this power by using the lords’ and the people’s fear of the Wraiths and the sukrael. But you already know this. What has he done now? How does he seek to grab more power?”

Aeren hesitated, suddenly realizing that Thaedoren hadn’t meant to goad him, but to warn him. If he presented his claim before the Lords of the Evant, he would receive the exact same argument in return.

He closed his eyes and forced his anger back. He wasn’t even certain where the anger had come from, except that he had not expected Thaedoren to argue with him. He’d come in search of an ally, one he felt he desperately needed. He had assumed Thaedoren would support him without question.

Perhaps Eraeth’s absence had affected him even more than he’d thought.

But when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the spray of greenery above Thaedoren’s head and his breath caught in his chest.

Reanne.

His gaze fell and he found Thaedoren watching him. Except now he noticed a difference, realized that this wasn’t the Thaedoren he’d known since his bonding with Moiran so many years before. Since then, they had been allies in nearly everything in the Evant, strategized together on some of the most important political issues brought before the lords. But he wasn’t dealing with Thaedoren alone anymore. He was dealing with Thaedoren
and Reanne
.

He’d known that the power within the Evant would shift
with Thaedoren’s bonding, with the linkage between House Resue and Licaeta. He hadn’t realized Reanne would have begun wielding her influence over Thaedoren so fast. Licaeta had always supported Lotaern and the Order, had been one of the forces adamant about including the Chosen in the Evant’s proceedings.

“I believe Lotaern intends to use the Alvritshai people against us,” he said, his voice calm and matter-­of-­fact, even though tension thrummed through his body. He suddenly didn’t know what to expect from Thaedoren, didn’t know what side he would take. His approach to the Tamaell shifted subtly, even as he continued. “Are you aware that he has sent members of the Order of the Flame, with escorts, into the individual Houses? They have been traveling from town to town, village to village, stopping at the temples of Aielan and performing the rituals along with—­or sometimes in place of—­the local acolytes. He is reminding the people of their ties to Aielan and to the Sanctuary. To him.”