Authors: Joshua Palmatier
Leaves of Flame (59 page)
“Then seal the warren.”
Azuka opened his mouth to protest—the order should have come from the Archon or the Cochen—but stopped himself, casting another glance at Quotl before nodding and kneeing his gaezel forward through the throng of dwarren toward the main entrance. Quotl remained behind, his gaze sweeping over those that filled the wide tunnel without really seeing them. A sense of inevitability enfolded him, numbed him. The power that had suffused him on the battlefield had waned, but his connection to it had not broken. It had merely subsided into the background.
He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand what it meant, but he was beginning to think it was more than simple chance. He’d overheard some of the rumors that were already threading their way through the dwarren ranks. Whispers that he’d been touched by the gods, that Ilacqua worked through him, even that he’d become a god himself.
He’d snorted in contempt at that last. But it was a troubled snort.
From far down the tunnel, he heard a rumble of stone that escalated and grew. He reached out to touch the wall beside him, his gaezel fidgeting beneath his weight as it felt the rock trembling. The roar of falling rubble increased, then peaked. As it began to fade, a cloud of dust and grit suddenly engulfed the entire corridor, moving swiftly past all of the gathered dwarren, the Riders crying out in alarm and breaking into fits of coughing. Torches guttered in the gust of air, a few sputtering out. Gaezels shifted restlessly. Quotl held his breath as long as he could, then sucked in a lungful of air, tasting the dry dust of stone in the back of his throat a moment before his lungs protested and he began coughing as well. As soon as the cloud of grit passed, it began to settle, everyone covered in a light gray-white film. Riders brushed themselves off and the hacking and wheezing faded.
“Who ordered the collapse?”
Quotl winced at the outcry, the voice instantly recognizable, a sour taste twisting his mouth into a grimace. He straightened, ran a hand down his dust-coated face, and prayed, wishing fervently for his pipe.
“I did,” he said, raising his voice to be heard even though the Riders that were within range had fallen silent.“I called for the collapse of the entrance.”
He turned to face the Archon.
On the far side of the tunnel, at least a hundred strides away, Kimannen spun in his seat, face contorted in rage. He stood with the Cochen, the clan chief covered in blood, his arm held out to the ministrations of one of Red Sea’s shamans. Two of the other clan chiefs—Corranu of Painted Sands and Asazi of Broken Waters—flanked the Cochen and the Archon, also wounded.
“The sealing of the warren is the Archon’s responsibility,” Kimannen spat. He dragged his gaezel around and headed toward Quotl, the Riders between parting before him, their gazes flickering back and forth between the two.
Quotl stiffened, reaching forward to still his gaezel when it snorted in defiance. “You were preoccupied with the Cochen and his wounds, although I see that one of your shamans has seen to them.”
Kimannen glared at the mild rebuke, halting a short distance away. “You overstep your bounds, Quotl. You always have.”
At the threat that underlay the words, the Riders surrounding Kimannen stirred, a grumble of discontent rumbling forth. The Archon did not appear to notice.
Quotl’s eyes narrowed.“Would you have left the warren open?”
“Of course not.We cannot allow the Wraith army access to the tunnels, to the Confluence.”
“Then I have merely anticipated your orders.”
“That is not the point!” the Archon shouted, trembling slightly. But when the murmur of dissent rippled among the Riders at his tone, he shot dark looks to either side. Confusion passed across his face, and he drew his gaezel back at the looks the dwarren were giving him, looks as dark as those he’d flung at Quotl.
He returned to face Quotl, the glare becoming a glower of hatred, of resentment.
He edged his gaezel closer, so that they stood side to side. His features smoothed, the anger draining away, although this close Quotl could still see it simmering deep in the Archon’s eyes. He drew himself up to his full height and said, “You wielded the power of Ilacqua I sent you well on the battlefield today. I can feel it inside of you still. I see now that I was mistaken. It was Ilacqua who guided you in sealing the warren behind us, yes? As it was Ilacqua, through me, who guided you at the Break?”
All eyes were on Quotl. Doubt had crept into the murmurs of dissent from the Riders, doubt Quotl knew he could crush with a few words. He could challenge Kimannen here and now, seize the Archon’s position before all of those gathered. It was not how the Archon was chosen, but this was the Turning. The world was slipping toward chaos, and perhaps that was the best reason to wrest control from Kimannen. They needed a strong Archon now more than ever.
But they also needed stability, especially among the clans. Kimannen hadn’t kept control for so long because he was powerless. He had allies among the clans, knew how to manipulate them to get what he wanted. Most of the shamans knew that a few were more powerful than Kimannen when it came to Ilacqua’s blessings, knew that Kimannen’s personal communion with the gods had been slipping recently. But they couldn’t afford a dispute among the shamans at this time. Not after the battle.
Quotl allowed himself to relax, his hand moving to calm the gaezel he rode.“Ilacqua guides me in all things,Kimannen, here and on the battlefield.”
Kimannen’s nostrils flared at the use of his name, rather than his title, but he answered, “As I suspected.” His gaze raked those watching. “The warren is sealed by Ilacqua’s will! Prepare to depart!”
Then, attention back on Quotl, leaning forward, so that only Quotl would hear, he said coldly, “You are not the Archon.”
He jerked his gaezel’s head around and headed back toward the Cochen. Oraju and the other clan chiefs had remained silent, but watchful. Corranu caught Quotl’s attention and nodded, the motion subtle but laden with respect. Oraju’s expression was impossible to read.
As soon as Kimannen turned his back, Quotl sighed. Tension in his shoulders drained away.
“Kimannen did not send you Ilacqua’s strength on the battlefield,” Azuka said from behind him.
Quotl started. He hadn’t heard the shaman return. He frowned at him, as if his inattention had been Azuka’s fault. “Who is to say? The Archon was distant. Perhaps he appealed to Ilacqua to aid us.”
Azuka’s penetrating stare didn’t falter. “The shamans know. And most of the Riders on the field.
They saw you
.”
A queasy unease ran through Quotl’s gut at the intensity in Azuka’s voice and his hand twitched toward his pipe. He waved his hand in frustration. “What did they see? I am nothing but a shaman, an old one at that, well past my prime.”
Azuka smiled. “True. But you’ve changed.”
“How? How have I changed?”
Azuka’s eyes widened. “You can’t see it, can you?”
Quotl answered with a heated glare and Azuka settled back in his seat. His brow creased in thought.
“It’s hard to explain. I’d have said that you glowed, but that’s not accurate. You appear the same, and yet there’s
more
. More life, more energy, more
you
. I can sense you even when I cannot see you, and what I feel emanating from you is . . .” He groped for a moment, then sighed, shoulders sagging. “What I feel is hope.”
Quotl remained silent.Azuka’s words made him uncomfortable, the stares of those Riders around him were worse. Throughout the chamber, dwarren began to pick themselves up and remount, those who were being attended by the shamans now finished. The clan chiefs were issuing orders, preparing to ride back toward the Confluence. They would need to discuss strategy, need to decide which of the warren entrances would have to be collapsed to keep the Wraith army at bay. Patrols would have to be established on the main routes in the east, a warning system put in place, supplies organized and all of the clans coordinated in the defense of the Confluence and the Lands.
The amount of planning and preparation staggered Quotl.
“You have been touched by the gods, Quotl, whether you like it or not.”
Quotl would have protested, but realized he couldn’t. Not when he could still feel the power he’d found on the battlefield coursing through him. Not when he could still feel the Lands beneath his feet.
Gregson stiffened, his heart aching, his throat hot and tight. He stood on the third wall of Temeritt in the darkness, the night sky open above, the stars brittle and clear. He’d been on the walls for hours, weary from the fi ghting, from the long, arduous march from Cobble Kill, the horrifying collapse of the Legion’s defenses near the Northward Ridge and the fl ight to Temeritt. But he could not sleep. He’d come here seeking solace, the familiarity of the Legion, the camaraderie of men who’d trained in the barracks here in Temeritt, beneath the GreatLord’s eye, in the shadow of the Autumn Tree.
He would not find any solace tonight. No one in Temeritt would.
The Legion manned the walls to either side, armored, with spears and pikes held straight at their sides. Between them stood other men—some of them no more than boys, really, ten or twelve, but men now—clad in odds and ends, with whatever armor they could find that would fit them, carrying weapons that were unfamiliar and unwieldy at their sides. A gasp had run along the length of the wall moments before, some men shifting forward, others back. Some had fallen to their knees while others signed themselves with Diermani’s skewed cross and muttered prayers beneath their breath. A few were weeping.
They all watched what Gregson watched, what all of the citizens of Temeritt watched, even though he couldn’t see them in the city below. He knew they were there, standing at windows, or lying on rooftops. He could
feel
them in the city that sprawled to either side and behind. He could smell their fear, like rank sweat, could smell their horror.
For below, on the low hills that surrounded the city, the fires of the Horde’s camp flickered. Thousands upon thousands of fires.
At the center of the Horde’s army lay the Autumn Tree.
And the Autumn Tree burned.
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 fi lled 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.
