you cannot argue that the members of the Flame are simply acolytes. They are not. They are warriors, trained in the art of battle, with the power of Aielan’s Light behind them, as you have proven on the battlefield at the Escarpment and in the attacks of the sukrael and the Wraiths in the years since. As warriors-as members of the Order of Aielan’s Phalanx-they fall under my direction as Tamaell of the Evant, just as all of the House Phalanx are under my command when necessary. Are you saying that the Flame should not be treated as a military unit?”
“They are acolytes of the Order, learned in the Scripts, with Aielan’s Light behind them.”
Thaedoren shook his head. “You cannot have it both ways, Chosen. The Order of the Flame is either a Phalanx under the direction of the Evant, or they are acolytes of the Order and nothing more.”
Lotaern sensed the threat behind the words. The Flame gave the Order the aspect of a House. If the members of the Flame became mere acolytes, then the Order of Aielan and Lotaern himself would lose his standing within the Evant. He couldn’t afford to lose that now.
But if he agreed that the Flame acted as the Order’s Phalanx, Thaedoren would have the power to seize control of it in times of need.
Thaedoren had halted and was watching him. He suddenly realized he hadn’t answered quickly enough, that his response should have been instant.
He smiled, knew it was forced. “The members of the Order of the Flame are warriors, of course. Warriors who are ultimately under the direction of Aielan.”
Thaedoren’s expression did not change. It was an ambiguous response, but Lotaern could not read how the Tamaell had taken it. His only words were, “Very well. Keep that in mind during the opening of the Evant.”
Was there a hint of warning in his voice?
“Was there anything else, Tamaell?”
“No. You may leave.”
Lotaern had made it to the entrance to the garden when Thaedoren called after him. He halted in his tracks, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I have heard of other concerns from the Lords of the Evant regarding the Order, and the Chosen. Be careful of what you attempt to gain, Lotaern. Do not attempt to extend your influence too far.”
Lotaern didn’t answer, couldn’t answer through the sudden fear that seized him. Instead, he turned and bowed his head in acknowledgment before stalking through the door and into the uppermost tier of the palace. Two White Phalanx fell into step to either side behind him, but he barely noticed, his mind racing.
What did Thaedoren know? What could he possibly have learned from the other lords? Had Peloroun or Orraen revealed their plans? But that did not make sense. Both lords had been concerned over revealing themselves, and both of them had too much to gain by allying themselves with him. Peloroun had lost power with his support of the ill-fated traitor, Lord Khalaek. And Orraen was too impatient to await a rise in the Evant after replacing his father, even with his sister now bonded to the Tamaell as Tamaea.
No, neither Peloroun nor Orraen had betrayed him.
He forced his heart to calm, the constriction in his chest easing. Taking a few deep breaths, he reconsidered the Tamaell’s last words, turned them over in his head, searching for what had not been said. The longer he thought about them, the more relaxed he became. The accusation had been vague, without specifics. If Thaedoren had known something specific, especially something as volatile as what he had planned, the Tamaell would not have resorted to veiled threats. No, Thaedoren knew nothing.
But he was suspicious.
Lotaern and his escort had reached the corridor that separated the Tamaell’s private chambers from the rest of the palace, the two White Phalanx taking up positions to either side of the entrance as he passed through. Lotaern ignored them, searching the round room for Vaeren, his sandaled feet clopping against the massive marble floor. The caitan of the Flame, along with Petraen, were waiting against the far wall, watching the servants, Phalanx, and other clerks pass by with studied disinterest. Both straightened as soon as they saw the Chosen.
Vaeren picked up on his uneasiness instantly. “What did the Tamaell want, Chosen?”
Lotaern scowled. “He wanted to discuss the finer points of law regarding the Order of the Flame. I fear he intends to use it somehow at the opening of the Evant. But he hinted at knowing something more. He warned the Order against overstepping its bounds.”
“He has always been cautious with the Order, unwilling to allow us power, but more than willing to use the Flame for his own ends.”
“That will change,” Lotaern muttered. “If the Alvritshai hope to survive the Wraiths and the sukrael, it will have to change. Only the Order and Aielan’s Light can lead us out from under their shadow. Thaedoren, and the other Lords of the Evant, will understand that shortly.”
Peloroun sat behind his desk within his personal chambers in Caercaern, staring across it toward the Ionaen House Phalanx guardsman who stared back. Few knew that he had already arrived for the opening of the Evant. Most of the lords of the Houses would be arriving in the next week.
Some were already here.
The muscles of his face hardened as he thought of Lord Aeren, then relaxed. He had dealt with Aeren since before the Escarpment, although since then the lord had gained much influence in the Evant. His exposure of Khalaek as a traitor had been the impetus behind much of that.
But Aeren’s time would come.
Peloroun smiled. The nervous guardsman across from him winced.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you here, Iroen.”
The guardsman swallowed, but straightened in his seat. He did not seem comfortable being seated in his lord’s presence. His hands shifted from the arms of the polished oak chair to his legs and back again before settling there. “No, Lord Peloroun. I am Ionaen Phalanx. I serve you without question.”
“I see.”
Iroen’s words were more sincere than he knew, although he and Courranen had made certain that Iroen and his two fellow guardsmen would not remember why.
Peloroun regarded the guardsman for a moment, then abruptly stood. As he moved around his desk, he picked up the small blade he used to open missives, only half the length of his finger, its handle made of bone. It was not especially sharp-it was not meant to be-but it was sufficient for his purposes.
Iroen watched him as he circled the desk. The guardsman did not miss the retrieval of the knife, which made Peloroun wonder if perhaps he should use one of the other two guardsmen instead. He hated to waste a promising guard.
But no, Iroen was here now. It would take time to summon the others.
“I have a problem, Iroen. One that you can help me with. I need to speak with someone, but he is too far away to summon, so far, in fact, that it would take weeks to find him simply to deliver the summons.”
Iroen frowned. Peloroun saw it as he passed behind him, the guard’s head dipping forward in confusion. “I don’t understand. How can I help you with this, my lord?”
Peloroun leaned back against his desk on Iroen’s far side, near enough he could have killed him with the letter opener before the guard could react if he’d wanted to.
“Do you recall the survey of the Provinces that we endured nearly twenty years ago, when I and three other Lords of the Evant traveled from Rendell in the north, along the coastal lands controlled by the humans, and then eastward from Portstown across the southern Provinces, through Temeritt, Borangst, and Yhnar?” When Iroen nodded, he continued. “You won’t remember, but while we were traveling from Temeritt to Yhnar, you and I and two other Ionaen House Phalanx left the main group, ostensibly to take a closer look at the Flats that separate the human lands from the Thalloran Wasteland. We met a friend there, on the Flats-the person I need to speak to actually. During that meeting, he left each of you with a… gift.”
Peloroun’s smile didn’t change, but the guard shifted uneasily. He held Peloroun’s gaze. “I don’t remember any of this.”
“I said you wouldn’t. But if you draw back the sleeve of your shirt, you will see what he left you.”
Iroen glanced toward the arm that Peloroun pointed to, resting on the edge of his seat. At Peloroun’s prodding, he slid the sleeve back to his elbow and turned his arm palm up, exposing the pale underside riddled with veins. Near the wrist, a small black mole stood out against the pale skin.
Except it wasn’t a mole.
