size awed him. He stared up at its branches, the uneasiness Lotaern had evoked crawling across his skin as he searched it for damage, for flaws, assuming the Chosen had brought him to the roof so that he could see the Tree. But he saw nothing wrong, felt nothing wrong, although he’d only be able to tell for certain by touching the Tree itself.
He turned toward Lotaern in confusion. “What is it? I don’t see anything wrong with the Winter Tree. It appears healthy.”
Lotaern shook his head. “It isn’t the Winter Tree. As far as I know, it’s fine. The Wardens-the acolytes assigned to its care-have reported nothing amiss.”
“Then what did you bring me up here to see?”
Lotaern nodded toward the south and east, toward the night sky, where the stars on the horizon were blotted out by what Colin assumed were clouds. Colin shifted position and moved down the edge of the roofline, staring into the distance. Neither Lotaern nor the two guards followed him. He watched the horizon intently, his fingers growing numb as the wind gusted into his face, but he saw nothing.
He had just begun turning toward the Chosen in irritation when something within those clouds flickered. Lightning flared, arcing from cloud to cloud, their contours harshly and vividly exposed, the sky beautiful for the space of a heartbeat before plunging back into darkness.
Colin sucked in a sharp breath, waited for the rumble of thunder though he knew the storm was too distant for them to hear it, even as horror crawled its way down into his chest. He straightened and turned toward Lotaern. “That’s not a natural storm,” he muttered, loud enough to be heard, even though his voice felt weak.
“No, it’s not. You see why I am concerned.”
“Yes.” Colin turned back to the darkness that blotted out the sky. Even as he watched, more lightning streaked from the clouds, flashing a preternatural purple. Like the storms that had scoured the plains before and after the Accord, that had plagued the dwarren and the Alvritshai alike for decades.
Until he’d balanced the power of the Wells and the storms had stopped.
“Someone has upset the balance of the sarenavriell,” he said, stepping forward as he angled his staff across his body protectively.
“That was our thought as well,” Lotaern said from behind him. “It’s why I thought you’d come.”
“No. I knew nothing of this.” He searched the storm, as if he could find answers there. Then he spun toward the Chosen, glancing toward Vaeren and the other member of the Flame. Anger had begun to build, creeping through the shock and sudden clench of his gut. “But it isn’t possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“It isn’t possible! I spent nearly thirty years finding those Wells and adjusting them so that the power had stabilized.” He began to pace, the frigid wind and the numbness of his fingers forgotten, his brow creased in furious thought.
“And the Wraiths can’t upset that balance somehow? They can’t adjust what you did?”
“No! I placed wards around all of the Wells, not just for the Wraiths and the Shadows, but to keep everyone else away from them as well. Their power is too dangerous, too deadly. I didn’t want anyone stumbling onto one, drinking from it, becoming like me, like the Wraiths. The Wells are protected!”
“None of those wards have failed?”
“I would know. They are tied to me, linked to the Lifeblood, to the sarenavriell. Even if one had failed, most of the Wells are within the boundaries of the Seasonal Trees. The Wraiths couldn’t approach them.”
“Most, but not all. How many are outside the Trees’ influence?”
Colin paused, drew in a deep breath to steady himself, said, “Three. Only three.”
Lotaern nodded. “Then you’ll need to verify that the wards on those three are still intact and that the Wells haven’t been altered in any way. Maybe the Wraiths have found a way around your wards. Or maybe something else has occurred.”
Colin straightened, back prickling at the tone in Lotaern’s voice, the hint of condescension. The words rang with command, as if Lotaern were ordering him to act, as if Colin were one of his acolytes.
“Such as?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
The guards caught the hint of warning. They stiffened.
Lotaern ignored it. “Perhaps you haven’t found all of the Wells yet.”
Colin wanted to scoff, his shoulders already tensing, but he was forced to let the anger out with a ragged exhalation. “You helped search the Scripts for the locations of the sarenavriell. You know how exhaustive that search was.”
“Yes. But the sarenavriell existed long before the Alvritshai appeared in these mountains. It’s possible that the locations of some of them remained hidden, even from our ancestors, those who wrote the Scripts in the first place.”
Colin nodded in grudging agreement, then turned back to the storm, watching the ethereal purplish lightning light up the skyline. The storm appeared to be moving southwest, out toward the plains and dwarren lands. He frowned. With effort, he shoved his irritation with Lotaern aside. He needed to focus on this new problem, on what it meant and how to solve it.
“When did you first notice the storms?” he asked after a long moment.
“A little over two weeks ago.”
Fingers aching with the cold, Colin moved across the roof toward the doorway. He heard the Chosen, Vaeren, and the second guard following, the light of the lanterns spilling his shadow out in front of him.
“What do you intend to do?” Lotaern asked as they entered the warmth of the Sanctuary, the guards closing the doors behind them.
Colin began massaging his hands as the Chosen took the lead and they descended into the halls and corridors of the Sanctuary proper. “First, I intend to get warm,” he said, snapping his hands briskly to increase the blood flow. “Then I intend to visit Lord Aeren.”
He smiled at Lotaern’s irritated glance.
The irritation did not taint the Chosen’s voice when he spoke. “And the storms?”
Colin’s smile faltered. He hated to admit it, but Lotaern had been correct. “I’ll have to verify that the Wells have been untouched, as you said.”
They reached the main corridor, the central chamber of worship for the Alvritshai and its acolytes opening up before them, its cavernous heights lit with thousands of candles. The chamber smelled of oil and smoke and incense, and echoed faintly with the scuffing of sandals from acolytes moving through the corridors and hallways above.
Lotaern paused, then said, “You won’t do it alone. You’ll have an escort of the Order of the Flame with you.”
3
“I don’t need an escort,” Colin protested.
“But you will have one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.
“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.
The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the knife that you carry.” Lotaern did not drop his gaze from Colin to the satchel slung across his chest where the knife rested, wrapped in chain mail, but Colin tensed anyway. “That knife may be the only weapon we have against the Wraiths, the only object that can kill them. It cannot be lost. If you travel alone and the Wraiths find you…” He let the thought trail off, then added, “We cannot allow it to fall into the Wraiths’ hands.”
Colin’s knuckles turned white and with conscious effort he forced himself to relax. He’d spent the last one
