betrayal of Shaeveran at the sarenavriell, see how they react.
“And then I will confront Lotaern in the Hall of the Evant.”
It was his only option now. He couldn’t count on Thaedoren’s support any longer, not unequivocally. The Tamaell’s bonding with Reanne, with House Licaeta, would change everything.
He would have to warn Moiran. He wasn’t certain she’d believe him.
Thaedoren remained standing after Lord Aeren and his escort had departed, staring out into the corridor even though they had long since moved beyond sight.
One of his own escort shifted toward him in concern. “Tamaell?”
He raised a hand to cut him off. “Give me a moment, Naraen. I need to think.”
The White Phalanx guard took a step back but did not withdraw.
Thaedoren bowed his head. What Aeren had said regarding Lotaern was disturbing, but he thought the lord’s concern was misplaced and doubted his attempts to sway the lords would work. Lotaern had always been a thorn in their sides, from the moment Thaedoren’s father had given his tacit permission for the Chosen of the Order to maintain the Order of the Flame. Lotaern had taken that as implicit approval to expand the group, even before Fedorem’s death at the Escarpment.
But what Thaedoren had done had sealed the Flame’s position in the Order. He’d acknowledged the need for the Flame on the battlefield, had used them. After that, there had been no chance of demanding that the unit be disbanded. For better or worse, the Order of the Flame had become a permanent addition to the Order of Aielan, subject to the orders of the Chosen.
And Thaedoren had not regretted that decision. In the years that followed, with the resurgence of the sukrael under the direction of the Wraiths, the Order of the Flame had been invaluable. None of the other House Phalanx, nor the White Phalanx, had a hope of standing up to the sukrael. Only the powers wielded by the Flame had been able to keep the sukrael at bay, and even then.…
He shuddered at the memories. Those first forty years of his rule as Tamaell had been devastating, the sukrael’s attacks on the southern and eastern borders vicious and maddening in their randomness. There had been no method to their destruction, no way to prepare or to plan a defense. All of his training within the Phalanx and his years of service as caitan along the border fighting the dwarren with his brother had been useless. Their only effective tactic, the only useful strategy, had come from the Order of the Flame.
From Lotaern.
The fact that the Chosen now had a weapon that could be used against the sukrael and the Wraiths, no matter how he had come into possession of that weapon, could only make the Flame more effective.
And with word that the armies of the Wraiths were in motion, they would need the Flame-and Lotaern-even more. He would not relive those years of frustration fighting a force that attacked from the shadows and withdrew before the defenses could be rallied and the powers of the Flame brought to bear. Too many Alvritshai had been lost.
Naraen stirred and Thaedoren glanced up to find Reanne standing in the doorway, a startled look on her face, a large tallow candle wrapped in cloth clutched in her hands.
“Oh, I thought the meeting had ended,” she said. “I can return later.” But she did not move.
Thaedoren stood and smiled. “No need, Reanne. The meeting has ended. I was simply thinking.”
She hesitated, the almond-colored eyes he loved flaring with concern, then entered, moving toward one of the side tables. “You look troubled,” she said, as she unwrapped the candle and began adjusting the arrangement there. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
Thaedoren shifted to her side, but did not touch her, aware of Naraen at the door. “Lord Aeren was expressing concern over the Chosen.”
Reanne grimaced. “Again? I do not understand his hatred of the Chosen. He was an acolyte once, was he not? How can he turn his back on everything he was taught then?”
“He hasn’t. But he has to think of the needs of his House now as well.”
“He can do both. Look at my brother, Orraen. He runs Licaeta and remains faithful to Aielan.”
“Aeren
“If he were faithful,” Reanne said, an edge to her voice, “he would support the Chosen in all that he does. Lotaern has done nothing but aid the lords in their defense against the sukrael.” She fussed with the candle and the cedar boughs, then sighed, head bowed. “But I know he is family.” She faced him with a wry smile. “Besides, the enmity between Aeren and Lotaern is not enough to trouble you this much, not when it is so old and worn. What other news did Lord Aeren bring?”
Thaedoren hesitated, but only because his bonding with Reanne was so new. They were still feeling each other out, even after a full winter together here in Caercaern, and the two years of courting that had come before that. But he wanted what his mother and Aeren shared, knew that they consulted each other on everything, including what occurred in the Evant.
“He brought me a warning from Shaeveran about the Wraiths.”
Reanne stilled. “What warning?” Fear tinged her voice.
“That they are moving. They’ve been manipulating the sarenavriell again. He didn’t have anything more substantial to tell us than that. Shaeveran has gone to investigate.”
“And the Winter Tree?”
“It still protects us.”
Reanne relaxed slightly. She turned back to the candle, fussed with the placement of the greenery again. “It makes Aeren’s disrespect of Lotaern even more suspicious, though. If the Wraiths are acting again, shouldn’t he be supporting the Chosen? We may need Lotaern. We may need the Flame, as we did before the protection of the Winter Tree.”
Thaedoren quelled a shudder at the reminder. But Reanne was right. The Alvritshai might need the Order and the Flame sometime soon, depending on what Shaeveran found. He needed to find out what Lotaern intended, regarding the knife and the news of the Wraiths’ movements. As Tamaell, he needed to protect the Alvritshai lands first and foremost. Perhaps it was time to deal with the tensions between Lotaern and Aeren once and for all. And time to prepare for whatever the Wraiths had planned for them next. He knew that Lotaern sought power, but that power might be better curbed by the Evant and the other lords if they saw Lotaern as a rival, as Aeren did.
“Naraen,” he said, glancing toward the guardsman even as he straightened. “Have word sent to the Chosen of the Order of Aielan that I wish to speak with him.”
“Immediately, Tamaell.”
“And summon my brother. Tell him the White Fox is needed once again in Caercaern.”
Lotaern stood beneath the massive branches of the Winter Tree, sunlight filtering down through the silvered leaves in dappled patches all around him. Stone paths converged here, meeting at a low circular table inscribed with quotes from the Scripts before winding away to other parts of the garden. Halfway between the entrance and the bole of the great tree, secluded and isolated by the city and the Sanctuary by the massive stone wall, it was one of Lotaern’s favorite places for contemplation.
And a simple place for a meeting away from prying eyes.
He moved to the edge of the heavy stone table, his gaze glancing at the inscriptions without reading them. One hand drifted toward the package in the left pocket of his robes, its weight more than physical, but he caught the motion and forced his hands to clasp before him. Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and murmured a soft chant, quieting his heart and the nervous trembling of his arms.
The prayer did little to still his troubled conscience.
“It belongs with the Order,” he muttered to himself. “He had no right to claim it for himself.”
“Talking to yourself, Chosen? Is that not one of the signs of corruption according to Aielan?”
Lotaern’s heart juddered in his chest at the familiar voice and he grimaced. He did not open his eyes and turn until it had calmed and he’d smoothed the lines of his face.
“Some of the most revered acolytes within the Order over the ages talked to themselves,” he said to the cloaked and hooded lord who stood at his back. “Even Cortaemall was said to rage within his own chambers.”
“So it is said.” Lord Orraen hesitated, then added, “What is it you wish to speak of?”
“We are waiting for another.”
