Leaves of Flame

dwarren. The group had brought down the mounts of those already below.

Tarramic raised a hand when the last of the Riders appeared, his other stroking the beads and feathers interlaced in his beard. Those milling about in the central plaza stilled, the cessation of sound spreading like a ripple on water from Tarramic’s position, although it was impossible for the hall to fall totally silent with the waterfall raging in the background.

As he began to speak, his rumbling voice filling the cavern, Siobhaen grasped Colin’s arm in irritation, forced him to look at her. “What is he saying?”

“He’s telling the clans-all of the clans present-to prepare to leave for the Sacred Waters. We’ll depart at dawn.”

“We can send word back to Caercaern then,” Eraeth said succinctly.

Colin shook his head. “No. We can’t.”

“Why not!” Siobhaen’s grip tightened.

He turned a somber gaze on her. “Because we won’t be traveling on the surface. We’ll be traveling underground.”

Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony of his House holdings in Caercaearn and stared out across the tiered city as it came to life. Lanterns were doused by patrols as the sun dawned on the horizon, gray light filtering through the peaks of the Hauttaeren Mountains where they dipped southward east of the city, purple with distance. The Sanctuary chimes rang utiern.

Aeren’s thoughts turned toward Lotaern and the Order of Aielan. He frowned, one hand rising to grip the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, a symbol of all that he had achieved while an acolyte within the Order, before his father and brother died on the battlefields of the plains and forced him to return to ascend as Lord of the Rhyssal House. If he had remained in the Order, would he support Lotaern now, in whatever power play he was making?

He didn’t know. It would have been a question he posed to Eraeth, a musing that the man who had practically raised him would have discussed with him in the early hours of dawn before the day began, but his Protector was not here. He felt the loss as a pang in his chest, a hollowness that he had not realized he would experience when he had given the Phalanx guardsman permission to accompany Colin.

Eraeth had been more of an integral part of his life than he had known.

A bitter, ironic smile turned his lips. He should have known. He could not remember a time when Eraeth had not been there, except for his years spent in the Sanctuary as an acolyte. His earliest childhood memory was of reaching for his father’s sword-the Rhyssal House sword-and having his Protector slap his hand away. He’d glared at the young guard who’d been hovering over him, even as he rubbed the ache from his hand, and vowed revenge. Days later, he’d lined the guard’s ceremonial helmet with black ink. It hadn’t quite dried yet when Eraeth had donned it for the Licaeta House’s arrival that afternoon.

It had taken two more years before he’d outgrown the pranks and come to a grudging acceptance of Eraeth’s presence at his side at all times. He’d experienced pain when he’d left the Protector at the doors of the Sanctuary to begin his studies there, but nothing like the loss he felt now. That pain had lasted a day, perhaps two, before he’d set it aside to focus on the Scripts and his lessons.

This pain was worse. Much worse. Eraeth had departed Artillien with Colin and Siobhaen over a month before and he still found himself turning to ask Eraeth a question at odd moments. He could feel the emptiness of the balcony and the room behind him even now.

He let his hand drop from the pendant and turned, stepping into the inner room where a servant had left a tray of fruit and a plate of scrambled eggs-a commoner’s dish he’d grown fond of while trading up and down the Provincial coast. The smell turned his stomach this morning, but he splashed a hot sauce imported from Andover over the eggs and forced himself to eat.

He had a meeting with Tamaell Thaedoren.

“Wait here. The Tamaell will be with you shortly.”

Aeren nodded and the servant who’d escorted him to the audience chamber departed, leaving the door open. Two of the White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s personal guard, were at the door, along with Aeren’s own escort. Hiroun stood with his back against the far wall of the corridor looking in. As the sole surviving Rhyssal guardsman from the journey to the White Wastes-aside from Eraeth, of course-Aeren had added him to his personal escort. He’d found the House Phalanx member to be competent at handling the nuisances of a lord’s schedule, as well as its abrupt changes.

At Hiroun’s questioning look, he smiled and shook his head, turning away to scan the audience chamber, noting the changes Thaedoren had made since he’d ascended the throne. His father, Fedorem, had kept the Tamaell’s chambers in Caercaern sparsely furnished, with chairs, tables, and side tables surrounded by a few urns, tapestries, and pedestals holding statuettes or other artwork. Most of the art had been chosen by Moiran, he’d learned. Those touches permeated the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien now.

Here in the highest tier of Caercaern, all traces of Moiran’s or Fedorem’s touch were gone. A wide oak table stained a dark color was surrounded by eight similarly stained chairs; a brass platter containing fronds of ferns and an arrangement of flowers filled its center. Similar arrangements lined the two side tables, interspersed with gold candleholders and assorted gold objects. Dried greenery hung from the walls, evergreen boughs tied at their base and fanned out to frame dangling pine cones or seed pods from the fall. The scent of cedar filled the room.

It did not feel like Thaedoren; the Tamaell had little patience for such things. Aeren sensed the new Tamaea’s hand in this. Reanne came from Licaeta, had been raised in the forested hills below the mountains, and from what Aeren had heard had not wanted to leave her own House lands. But a marriage into the ruling House of Resue would not have been something she could deny; nor could the Tamaea reside anywhere but Caercaern. It appeared that Reanne had made every effort to bring her homeland to Caercaern with her after the official bonding last summer.

“She has taken over everything here in Caercaern during the winter.”

Aeren turned to find Tamaell Thaedoren standing in the doorway, flanked by two White Phalanx.

The youth that had ridden hard with Aeren to meet with the dwarren and convince them that the Alvritshai intended peace those long years ago was gone. Aeren had thought the Tamaell Presumptive back then irresponsible, arrogant, and unable to set aside his bitterness over his relationship with his father to act in the best interests of the Alvritshai. He had been wrong.

Thaedoren had brought the dwarren to the battlefield against his father’s wishes, then worked with them to form the Accord after his father’s death. He had been instrumental in forging the alliance that had held for over a hundred years, and during those years had managed the Evant and the Alvritshai lords with a firm hand. Aeren had not agreed with every decision the Tamaell had made during that time, had been vehemently opposed to some on the Evant floor, but that did not lessen the respect he’d come to hold for him. The years, and the trials, had left their mark. The proud youth he’d first seen had been tempered, face scarred with the political and physical battles he’d waged since then. Weariness edged his eyes, lined his cheekbones, dulled his black hair. He smiled and motioned Aeren to take one of the chairs around the table.

“You’ve come to Caercaern early,” Thaedoren said, taking the opposite seat while his escort moved deeper into the room. “The Lords of the Evant are not expected back here for another three weeks.”

“There are a few issues that I felt needed to be brought to your attention immediately, before their arrival.”

Thaedoren’s smile faltered and he leaned back. “I thought it unlikely you came simply for a family visit.”

“I would have brought your mother and half brother if so. I left them in Artillien.” He met Thaedoren’s gaze. “For their own safety.”

Thaedoren tensed, the change nearly imperceptible. The smile was gone.

His gaze flicked toward the open door and the hall outside, then the two White Phalanx standing inside the room, before returning to Aeren. “Where is your Protector?”

Aeren grimaced. “He is with Shaeveran.”

Thaedoren hesitated, then motioned to one of the Phalanx. The guard strode to the door to the audience chamber and said something soft to those outside, then made to close the door. Before he could, Hiroun stepped forward into the room. The White Phalanx guardsman glanced toward Thaedoren, but at the Tamaell’s nod allowed