Leaves of Flame (70 page)

A
EREN STORMED INTO HIS ROOMS in Caercaern and flung the ceremonial House sword onto his desk. “How is he controlling the Evant?” he raged. “How is it that every vote on every issue ends up swinging toward his own agenda? Who are his allies?”

He crossed the room in a minimum of strides and halted before the lone table that held the artifacts of his House, a dagger that was once his brother’s, a pendant that his mother had worn, the swath of cloth from one of his father’s shirts, stained with his father’s blood. They rested on top of the blue-­and-­red folds of a Rhyssal House banner draped across the table. It had once held the House sword as well, until he’d taken to wearing it whenever he left—­not only to attend the Evant, but even for an excursion to the market.

Caercaern no longer felt safe.

He leaned forward onto the table and bowed his head. Behind him, he heard Hiroun murmur something to the rest of the Phalanx, then close the door. Footsteps moved into the room, but halted a discreet distance away, close, but still leaving Aeren a sense of privacy; he could ignore the guard if he wished.

Eraeth would have rounded the desk and come to Aeren’s side.

Aeren sighed and pushed back from the table, faced Hiroun, the Phalanx guard straightening slightly.

“Well?” Aeren demanded.

Hiroun’s eyes widened before settling into a studied blankness. He’d obviously thought the questions were rhetorical, and he was not yet as astute at hiding his thoughts as Eraeth would have been.

He shifted, glanced toward the table beside Aeren, then back toward his lord. “It is difficult to tell. There are no Lords of the Evant who have voted consistently in Lotaern’s favor. Every lord has voted for and against him at some point in the past two months. I do not see a pattern.”

“And yet somehow he has controlled the outcome of nearly every vote and manipulated the discussions in his favor. Even Lords Orraen and Peloroun continue to both support and deny the Chosen.”

Hiroun nodded agreement. “The only other member of the Evant who has consistently voted against the Chosen’s wishes recently has been Tamaell Thaedoren.”

Aeren grimaced and began pacing. “Thaedoren knows of Orraen and Peloroun’s alliance. Of course he opposes them. But Lotaern… Lotaern is more resourceful than I thought, than I ever suspected. Even with Thaedoren’s help, we haven’t been able to stop him, only slow him down. He has risen far in the Evant, in too short a time.”

Hiroun said nothing, but Aeren felt his eyes on him as he moved about the room. He massaged his temple with one hand, the headache that had begun at the beginning of the session of the Evant—­that had plagued him at nearly every Evant since the beginning of spring—­throbbed behind his eyes.

Still agitated, Aeren collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He frowned at the new missives stacked there. “Have the servants bring hot tea with honey.”

Hiroun issued the order at the door, then closed it and
stepped to one side. Aeren reached for the letters. Most were reports from the magistrates of the various holdings of the House, forwarded by his son from Artillien, some with notes from Fedaureon, who had looked at them himself before sending them on. A new trade agreement between Rhyssal and the human Province of Rendell caught his attention and he broke the seal to see if the changes both sides had requested had been made and that no other portions of the language had been altered, then set it aside to be signed later.

Then he noticed Moiran’s handwriting and he smiled. He pulled the thin letter from beneath a slew of others and broke the seal, a faint scent of lavender drifting up from the page as he unfolded it. It brought an instant image of Moiran’s small sitting room overlooking the lake. An ache awoke in his chest, but he quashed the urge to return to Artillien immediately. There were only a few more weeks before the summer intercession, when the Lords of the Evant could return to see to the progress of their own lands. He could wait that long at least.

He began reading.

Within a few sentences, he stiffened, his smile dropping away. Something clenched at his heart, squeezing it tight.

On the far side of the room, Hiroun grew tense. Out of the corner of his eye, Aeren saw the Phalanx’s hand drop to his cattan, heard the rustle of cloth as the guard shifted, but he did not look up.

He read the letter to the end, then read it again.

He let the parchment fall to his desk, hesitated, and finally glanced up toward Hiroun.

“Ready the Phalanx, all of them, and prepare the rest of House Rhyssal for an immediate return to our House lands. Do so quietly, but swiftly. I want to be outside the walls of Caercaern and as far west as possible by nightfall tomorrow.”

“What has happened?”

Aeren regarded him steadily, then said darkly, “The Chosen, through the Order of the Flame, is planning an insurrection in our own House lands. I intend to stop it.”

“But what of the Evant? Will you leave it to Lotaern?”

Aeren bowed his head, rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand. He suddenly felt weary, his age settling over him like a cowl.

He let his hand drop and reached for parchment and ink, spurring himself into action before the weariness could catch hold.

Tamaell Thaedoren must be informed immediately.

Without glancing up, he said harshly, “I have fought Lotaern in the Evant for months and achieved nothing. I cannot save those who do not wish to be saved. I will focus on saving my own House—­my own family—­if it is not already too late.”

Hiroun did not respond, but as Aeren dipped a quill into ink and began to draft a missive to the Tamaell, he heard the door open and close.

A moment later, booted feet thundered in the corridor outside as the Rhyssal House prepared to flee Caercaern.

Peloroun and his two escorting Phalanx guards entered the Sanctuary at dusk and were led by one of the acolytes ­toward the Chosen’s personal chambers deep inside the temple. Peloroun did not pause at the massive ritual basin in the main rooms, did not kneel and pray as was proper, and he ignored the disapproving look the accompanying acolyte gave him and his guards. He disliked being summoned by Lotaern mere hours after the closing of the Evant, the message arriving in the middle of his meal. And he hated being called to the Sanctuary. If any of the other lords became aware of this meeting, or learned that he had
made a personal call on the Chosen at such an odd hour, their entire alliance would be exposed. Did the man have no sense of propriety? Of subtlety?

The acolyte knocked on the Chosen’s outer door and, at a command from within, opened it to allow Peloroun and his guards to pass, closing it behind them.

Peloroun had never been to Lotaern’s private chambers. The room was covered from floor to ceiling in plants, most of them in bloom. Vines climbed and wove among trellises and lattices overhead. Miniature trees grew from pots scattered on all sides. Tables strewn with smaller pots were set against the walls, a large desk set near the back. The room reeked of earth and the cloying scent of flowers and citrus.

But it was those already assembled that caught and held Peloroun’s attention. He scowled as he stepped forward, his guards a pace behind. Chairs had been set out, Lord Orraen seated at one of them, his guards behind him. Peloroun halted a few steps away from where Lotaern leaned forward onto his desk, two members of the Order of the Flame flanking him.

“Are you insane?” he growled. “Why is Lord Orraen here? Why have you risked exposing us? Anyone who hears word of this will know of our alliance!”

Lotaern regarded him calmly, hands clasped before him. Behind, one of the members of the Order of the Flame shifted threateningly, Peloroun’s guards responding in kind. The tension in the room mounted as Orraen’s Phalanx also bristled.

Then Lotaern stood, and for the first time Peloroun noticed the strange wooden knife sitting on the unfolded chain cloth before him. The knife gleamed in the glow from the candles and lanterns that filled the room with warm light.

“The time for secrecy has ended,” the Chosen said.

Peloroun’s anger faltered. He shot a wary glance toward
Orraen, but the other lord had frowned, clearly as confused as he was. “What do you mean?”

Lotaern smiled. “The Autumn Tree has fallen. It’s time to put all of our plans into motion. It’s time to bring the Tamaell and the Evant to its knees.”

The
Mary Gently
docked in the bustling town of Trent at midday. Tuvaellis stood on the deck and listened to the captain bellowing orders, watched the crew scramble, shirtless and sweaty in the heat. Her own cloak and cowl covered her in shadow, her black-­stained skin hidden beneath its folds. The journey across the Arduon had been mostly uneventful. She’d remained in her cabin, venturing up to the deck only at night. None of the crew had bothered her, after the first who’d tried to rape her had ended up with two broken hands. She scoffed as she recalled how he’d waited for her beneath the stairs that led to her rooms, reaching out to snag her and drag her into the shadows with him. She’d smelled him from the deck before she’d descended. For a brief moment, she’d considered spilling his blood across the narrow hall, but decided that would bring too much attention to herself.

He’d been lucky she’d stopped with his hands.

If he’d managed to see the mottled Alvritshai skin beneath her cowl, she wouldn’t have stopped there.

Now, she turned her attention to the port city, the air humid and thick. The land rose sharply from the crystalline waters, the whitewashed buildings practically stacked one on top of the other. The roofs were tiled, windows wide and arched at the top, colored shutters and doors open to catch the breeze from the ocean. The wharf and the visible plazas were thronged with people, carts, wagons, and horses. The docks reeked of fish and brine.

On the heights above, the land leveled out and she could
see vineyards and orchards and groves of olive trees interspersed with buildings. Columns supported open porticos with cloth hung overhead for shade. Aqueducts like those her own Alvritshai used wove through the fields. A large manse surrounded by a low wall presided over it all.

“So different from the human Provinces,” Tuvaellis muttered to herself. She could feel the age of the stone and of the city, not unlike the abandoned cities of the Alvritshai to the north of the Hauttaeren Mountains. Yet even with that age, Trent felt cleaner than Corsair.

Perhaps that had to do with the way the sun glared on the white stone of the buildings. Corsair used granite.

Behind her, something crashed to the deck, followed by a hissed curse. She turned, still absorbed with her thoughts of the city—­

And found one of the crew standing over the trunk from her rooms.

She reacted on instinct, rage enveloping her. She stepped forward and backhanded the man, already reaching for the hilt of her sword. The blade snicked free as the man reeled back from the blow and fell to the deck. Its tip settled on his neck before she managed to control herself.

“Who told you to enter my cabin and retrieve my trunk?” she snarled.

The man froze in shock, his skin pale, blood trickling from his nose. His eyes were locked on hers and he was hyperventilating.

Hurried boot steps sounded and Tuvaellis shot a glance to one side, saw the captain trotting toward them, his hands held up in a calming gesture, as if she were a spooked horse. Her eyes narrowed.

“Calm down,” he said as he approached. His face was beaded with sweat. “It wasn’t Devid’s fault. I saw you on deck and sent him to get your trunk, figuring you’d want to be off the ship as soon as possible.”

He came to a halt out of the reach of her sword, his eyes imploring.

“Devid’s a good hand,” he added.

Tuvaellis said nothing, but after a long moment withdrew her sword from the terrified man’s throat.

Both Devid and the captain heaved sighs of relief.

She glanced toward the trunk, scowled as she realized one of the corners had splintered, even though it was protected by brass, an edge of burgundy-­colored cloth peeking through. A thread of fear swept through her and she nearly jerked the trunk open to check the contents, to make certain nothing had been disturbed, but she caught herself.