their weapons as well, then departed. Eraeth remained behind, after a short glance and confirming nod from Aeren, moving into a guardsman’s position near the door.
Aeren shifted away from the balcony’s edge toward Colin. “What brings you to Caercaern, in need of the Evant? You haven’t been here in nearly thirty years. Is it about the Wells? The Shadows and the Wraiths? Have you managed to stop them?”
Colin stood, leaning on his staff. He appeared older than when Aeren had seen him last, but Aeren knew he could change his age at will. He wondered why Colin had chosen age over youth in this instance, what advantage it gave him.
“We both know that, even with the help of the Faelehgre, our chances of stopping the Wraiths from awakening the Wells would be … difficult. I’ve discovered that perhaps it shouldn’t be done at all.”
“So the Wraiths and the Shadows will be allowed to run free, to feed off of our people at will?” Eraeth couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. Aeren tensed as well, thinking of all of the Alvritshai who had already died in their attempts to keep the Shadows from their lands.
Colin bowed his head slightly. “I have come up with another option. But it will require the help of the Order of Aielan.”
Aeren straightened. “Lotaern has used the Order to gain power within the Evant, more power than I am comfortable with at the moment. He has used the threat of the Shadows and the Wraiths, and the fears of the lords and the Alvritshai, to consolidate his control. The Order has essentially risen to the level of a House. I do not think that allowing him control over something more-”
“I think you’ll find that this may limit his control, rather than extend it. At least regarding the Shadows and the Wraiths. I cannot say how it will affect his political power within the Evant. That is … an Alvritshai concern.”
Aeren frowned. “What is this other option?”
Colin’s free hand moved to the satchel he carried at his side. “A way to counter the effects of the awakened Wells, to limit the range of the Shadows … and the Wraiths to an extent. A way to protect the Alvritshai from their threat.”
Aeren stared at the satchel. He found it hard to believe that something that could save the Alvritshai from the Shadows and the Wraiths could be contained in such a small case.
He caught Colin’s gaze. “How?”
Colin raised his head enough he could see through the heavy folds of his hood as he, Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest of the Rhyssal House Phalanx passed through the massive wooden doors of the inner chamber of the great Hall at the center of Caercaern’s widest marketplace. He could see little through the opening of the cowl, had entirely missed the thick colonnades of the Hall and the magnificent stone carvings on the outside walls depicting Alvritshai in their daily labors and religious observances. But the interior was as grand. The Tamaell’s platform stood on the far side of a wide area surrounded by circular arrays of desks and seats and tiered stairs leading down to a central oval. Alvritshai lords and their attendant guards, clerks, and aides filled the stairs, their conversations echoing loudly in the huge vaulted ceiling overhead. The desks were draped in thick folds of cloth of various colors, representing each of the Houses of the Evant, those colors mirrored in the banners arrayed against the rounded walls of the chamber and in the formal dress of everyone present.
Eraeth and Aeren led the Rhyssal House party down the stairs to the deep-blue-and-red-shrouded desk. Colin felt the eyes of the attendant lords register Aeren’s arrival … and then fall on the shrouded figure carrying a staff and satchel behind him. Beneath the folds of the cowl, he heard the sudden lull in conversation, saw the pinched frowns that flashed briefly across faces before gazes shot toward Aeren, toward the empty throne that graced the Tamaell’s platform, then to their fellow lords to gauge reactions. Conversations resumed as Aeren reached his own seat and settled in, motioning Colin to a place on his left, Eraeth taking up position on his right. A flurry of activity ensued, as pages were sent to relay messages throughout the room.
Colin glanced around, taking note of the lords he recognized and a few he didn’t. The fallout from Lord Khalaek’s betrayal and murder of Tamaell Fedorem had been swift, the declaration that House Duvoraen had fallen occurring on the battlefield at the Escarpment after Khalaek had been banished and handed over to King Stephan and subsequently executed. House Uslaen had risen in its place, led by Lord Saetor, who stood near his white-and- gold-shrouded desk, back rigid. He looked uncomfortable among his fellow lords, even after forty years. Younger, and raised and trained to be part of the Phalanx, his ascension into the Evant had been unexpected, an honor placed upon him for his part in the battle at the Escarpment and his handling of Lord Khalaek’s forces after the lord had been removed and his Phalanx placed under Saetor’s command. The transition hadn’t been entirely smooth- there were those loyal to Khalaek who had abandoned the House as Saetor seized control-but after Khalaek’s betrayal had been exposed, backed by both Thaedoren and Lotaern’s word, it had gone as smoothly as could be expected.
Saetor watched Colin intently, ignoring the flurry of messages that had accumulated on his desk. He was so focused that Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked away, even though he knew Saetor could not see beneath his cowl.
His gaze fell on the other unknown lord, Orraen Licaeta, the son of Vaersoom, who had ascended in his father’s place as the Lord of House Licaeta soon after the Escarpment, when Vaersoom had succumbed to the wounds received during the battle. Orraen was the firstborn and, unlike Aeren, had been trained to take his father’s place since the day he was born. Aeren’s elder brother had been groomed for the role Aeren now held. When he had been killed over the course of the war for the plains, Aeren had been forced to leave his studies as acolyte in the Order of Aielan and take control of his House.
Orraen reminded Colin of Khalaek. His posture was relaxed, his genial smile unforced as he moved among the gathering of the Evant, talking to lords and aides and, on occasion, their Phalanx guardsmen. Yet the hardness around his eyes never abated, and his actions-every gesture, every movement-were far too smooth, too slick and practiced. He appeared to have dismissed Colin, his back turned toward Aeren as he conversed with Lord Jydell, even laughing at something his fellow lord said. Jydell cast Aeren a contemplative look, and appeared at ease, but the way one hand twisted the sleeve of his shirt and his occasional glance toward Colin’s shrouded figure revealed his concern.
Behind Orraen and Jydell, a few levels up the stairs, stood Lotaern, Chosen of the Order of Aielan. As if sensing Colin’s gaze, even from beneath the hood, the Chosen nodded in acknowledgment, as if he knew who hid behind the cowl. And perhaps he did.
Before Colin had a chance to assess the rest of the lords, members of the White Phalanx filed into the room. Four appeared on the platform itself, arranging themselves around the main throne and the two smaller thrones set a pace back to either side. The rest filed in beneath the platform, carrying standards or spears, moving slowly, with formal, deliberate steps. The surrounding lords and their entourages began filtering toward their seats, conversations falling silent.
The White Phalanx halted, standing stock-still, waiting until the room had quieted before the two carrying the spears raised them and pounded their metal bases into the marble floor. The sound cracked through the chamber, and Colin started, even though he’d been expecting it. The procedure for the Tamaell’s arrival had changed subtly since Colin had last attended the Evant, but the feel of the chamber-the simmering tension of predator and prey- was the same.
“Tamaell Thaedoren Ormae Resue,” one of the standard-bearers announced.
Everyone in attendance stood as Thaedoren emerged onto the platform, followed by his mother, Moiran, and his brother, Daedelan. Colin’s eyebrows rose. Both Thaedoren and Daedelan were dressed in the full regalia of the White Phalanx, including bracers on their arms and armor beneath the silky red-and-white folds of their House shirts. Daedelan had darker hair than Thaedoren, like his mother’s, but even from this distance Colin could see they both had their father’s green eyes. Both were tall and solidly built, although Daedelan was obviously younger, even with his face set in a serious expression. Moiran’s gaze swept the room, lingering on no one, not even Aeren, but seeing all. She wore a dress that hinted at armor, the folds and cut more severe and serious than usual. No one spoke, but a rustle eased around the room as the rest noticed as well. Eraeth shot Aeren a questioning look, but Aeren merely shrugged.
Obviously, Thaedoren had prepared since they’d met with him that morning.
“Be seated,” Thaedoren said, but remained standing as the chamber filled with the sounds of rustling cloth.
