swallow of wine before he began. Moiran had always given the reports in the past.
“Winter harvests went well. We have an excess of wheat from the central and eastern fields. I’ve allocated most of it for use in the Ilvaeren, the rest for trade with the Provinces. Nearly half of that is already on its way to Neaell, to be stored and shipped south in the spring.”
“And I have already contacted some of the other ladies of the Ilvaeren regarding the portion we have kept,” Moiran said. “I believe that we can use the grain to garner some decent concessions regarding our own future needs.”
Aeren nodded, then motioned toward Fedaureon with his knife. “Continue.”
Fedaureon launched into a further accounting of some of the early winter harvests, a nervous tightness around his eyes relaxing as he spoke, as if he’d expected Aeren to be disappointed with the decisions he had made while they were gone. But Aeren said nothing, questioning him occasionally on his reasoning, or offering up a different point of view, but never actively countering any of the decisions his son had made. Colin did notice that none of the discussion concerned anything that would be of interest to Siobhaen or the Order of Aielan; both Fedaureon and Aeren were obviously still aware of her presence. Watching Fedaureon, Colin caught moments-an expression, a gesture-when he reminded him so strongly of Aeren as he had been when they’d first met on the plains that he winced.
Moiran reached forward and touched his arm, drawing his attention away from father and son, then said in a soft voice, “I shocked Fedaureon a little while you were away. Until recently, we’ve been including him in the decisions made for the House, both in the Evant and the Ilvaeren, but the final decisions have been ours. When Aeren left for this little adventure,” her voice was tinged with the disapproval she’d voiced before they’d departed, “I decided that it was time Fedaureon received a taste of what making the decisions himself would be like.”
“And?”
“He fared… well.”
Colin grinned. “Meaning he didn’t make the decisions you or Aeren would have made.”
“Not on all counts, no. But that is to be expected. He is not Aeren, and I do not expect him to be. One day the House will be his. He will learn from his mistakes.”
Colin’s heart faltered. He could not conceive of the Rhyssal House without Aeren as its lord. At the time they met on the plains, Aeren had been the younger of two sons, there for his Trial, with the expectation that his brother Aureon would ascend and take over the House on their father’s death. But since then, since Colin’s emergence from the Ostraell and his transformation into Shaeveran by the Well, Aeren had been the House’s lord.
The fact that this would change, that it was inevitable, disturbed him enough he set his knife and fork down, suddenly no longer hungry. He reached for his wine instead.
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
Moiran looked surprised. “That he will learn from his mistakes?”
Colin smiled. “No, that one day the House will be his.”
She chuckled, shaking her head before looking Colin in the eye. He didn’t know what she saw there, but the smile on her lips faltered and she straightened, one hand reaching for his arm again. “Colin, I have served as the Tamaea, whose sole purpose aside from leading the ladies of all of the other Houses in the Ilvaeren was to raise the heirs to the Alvritshai throne. I spent nearly all of my life preparing Thaedoren and his brother Daedelan for their rise to power. This role didn’t change when Fedorem died and I was bonded to Aeren. Only the scale. I’ve spent the last thirty years preparing Fedaureon to take Aeren’s place.” She squeezed his arm. “You, of all people, should be aware of how time changes everything.”
“Yes, I am. And yet you and Aeren have been the one constant presence in my life since I returned from drinking from the Well.”
Moiran frowned. “But we will die, Shaeveran. You know that.”
“I know it, but that does not mean I have accepted it.”
Moiran searched his face a long moment, concerned. Eraeth sat to one side, listening to Fedaureon and Aeren’s conversation intently, although he’d been watching Colin and Moiran. Colin couldn’t read his expression, but when he turned aside, a troubled look passed over the Protector’s face. His gaze paused on Siobhaen, then dropped to consider Aeren before growing distant with thought.
Eventually, the conversation and focus on food died down, everyone settling back in their seats with glasses of wine close by, a mood of satiation and contentment settling over the room. The tautness in Fedaureon’s face and body had released, and even Colin felt some of the stresses of the harsh travel falling away. He slumped in his chair, adjusting his position as pain shot up from his mostly-healed side. Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional heavy sigh.
Until Hiroun yawned. The Phalanx guardsman had nearly nodded off where he sat twice already, his head lowering, eyes slowly closing, before jerking up at the last minute.
Aeren smiled and Moiran chuckled.
With a significant glance toward her husband, Moiran rose and said, “I think we should allow our guests to retire for the evening, Fedaureon. They have returned from a long journey and, so I’ve gathered, will be leaving us again shortly.”
“Not all of us,” Colin said.
Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing. Fedaureon stood as the rest rose as well, all except Aeren and Colin.
“Hiroun,” Moiran said, “if you could escort Siobhaen to her quarters, I’ll see that the rest of the rooms are prepared.”
Siobhaen nodded. “Thank you, Lady Moiran. It has been a pleasure being a guest of your House.”
The two left, Hiroun leading Siobhaen, although she could not have been unaware of the second guardsman who fell in behind them both. Colin expected Moiran and Fedaureon to depart as well, but they both stayed. As servants began clearing away the plates and serving trays, the relaxed atmosphere died and Colin suddenly realized that he would not be retiring to his rooms as early as he had thought, not based on the looks that fell on him from Aeren and Fedaureon. Eraeth, strangely, did not want to face him. But Moiran picked up on the tension in the room and settled back into her seat.
“It seems there is still something left to discuss,” she murmured, then motioned for a servant to bring another decanter of wine.
“So it would seem,” Colin said, and let some annoyance creep into his voice as he leaned forward, “although I’m not certain what it could be.”
“It’s Siobhaen,” Fedaureon blurted.
“More specifically, the Order of the Flame and Lotaern,” Aeren added.
A thread of anger began niggling its way up from Colin’s stomach. “We’ve already been over this on the return trip. More than once. You cannot come with me and Siobhaen to the east.” He turned on Fedaureon before the boy could speak, the youth already drawing breath, “And neither can you!”
Moiran stiffened in her chair, a small motion but one that sent ripples through the room. “You will not go wherever it is you’re planning to go, Aeren. Not this time. You or Fedaureon.”
The finality in her voice rang through the room like the clear tones of a bell.
“He knows that, Moiran. We’ve already discussed it. I thought we’d agreed.”
Aeren shook his head. “That was before I knew what has been happening since we left.”
Colin shot a glance at Moiran, saw her frown. “What’s happening?”
“Remember on our way to the Hauttaeran Mountains how Siobhaen and the other members of the Flame were stopping at nearly every temple, ostensibly for prayer and reflection?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t just Siobhaen and Vaeren,” Eraeth said, his voice low.
“What do you mean?”
Aeren hesitated, caught Moiran’s gaze, then motioned toward Fedaureon.
The youth leaned forward. “Approximately twenty days after you left, a member of the Order of the Flame along with a few escorting acolytes arrived in Artillien. They were welcomed at the temple in the town below, of course, and once we heard of their arrival we informed them that Lord Aeren was not present, but invited this member of the Flame and his party here to the manse nonetheless.”
“We were politely but firmly refused,” Moiran interjected.
