Leaves of Flame

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.

Unable to dampen her fear, she spun on the captain. “I need rooms in the city, and two crewmen to carry my trunk to them. Carefully.” She glared at Devid, who flinched.

“Of course,” the captain said. He did not look happy, but his need to see her off of the ship as soon as possible was evident. He motioned to two other crewmen who were watching the altercation to one side. “Take the trunk and the lady to The Painted Vine. Tell Irina I sent you.”

The men grimaced but stepped forward, grabbing the leather handles of the trunk and lifting it. Tuvaellis’ heart stuttered when she heard something shift inside, but she said nothing. They preceded her down the plank to the dock and into the crush of people along the wharf, winding their way up the switchback streets into the city beyond. Tuvaellis kept her attention on the trunk, distracted only once by the passage of a group of armored men in the colors of the Bontari Family. But the soldiers were not interested in her or the trunk. She watched the sun- gleaming figures vanish in the crowd, then motioned the two crewmen on.

It took half an hour to reach The Painted Vine. The wrought iron gate opened onto a small courtyard with a