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 fighting, from the long, arduous march from Cobble Kill, the horrifying collapse of the Legion’s defenses near the Northward Ridge and the flight 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
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.
24
Aeren 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
