frequency, until the grassland gave way to a harsh landscape of stone, scrub, and sand of every color imaginable, finally falling into the wastelands beyond.
“Aielan’s Light,” Siobhaen gasped, throwing her head and arms back to soak in the sunlight. “I never thought I’d see the sun again. How long were we traveling underground?”
Colin smiled. “Nearly a month.”
Siobhaen reached back to loosen her long black hair from the cord that tied it away from her face. She shook her head with a scowl. “I don’t understand how they can live that way.”
“The Alvritshai used to live within the mountains beneath Caercaern and along the Hauttaeren.”
Siobhaen snorted. “Because we were driven there by the glaciers and the harsh winters in the north. We didn’t live there by choice, and we didn’t live there all year. Look at all of this land they aren’t using!”
Colin glanced around, then dismounted. “This land is what they were sworn to protect. They do use some of it-for farming and such-and they have set aside portions of it for trade, but no, they don’t use the rest of it. It’s sacred to them.”
Siobhaen shook her head. “I still don’t understand.”
“You weren’t raised with the dwarren beliefs,” Eraeth said, following Colin’s lead and dismounting, allowing his horse to graze. “Should we rest here before continuing?”
Colin grinned. “A moment to enjoy the sun would do us all good, I think.”
Eraeth pulled some dried meat from his packs and passed it around, Siobhaen lying down in the grass to soak up the sun, eyes closed. Colin took his staff and moved off to one side, scanning the southern horizon. The black clouds of a storm could be seen there, too distant to be threatening, moving away from them.
“Do you think the Cochen will send a warning to the Alvritshai and the Provinces as he said he would?” Eraeth asked as he halted next to Colin and handed him a strip of the meat.
“Yes. The dwarren take their vows seriously. Look at how long they’ve protected the Lands they were given. When they signed the Accord, they were the only ones who truly meant to keep its word to the letter. I suspect that a group of dwarren has already been dispatched to Caercaern and Corsair, sent before the gathered army headed toward the east.” He motioned toward the storm, a flare of lightning brightening the clouds for a moment. “That is what truly concerns me.”
“We’ve dealt with those storms before.”
Colin shook his head. “No, not the storm. What it portends. The Wraiths are using the Source to target both the Summer Tree and the Autumn Tree, and the Autumn Tree is in Temeritt, far from Corsair.”
“Then the dwarren should send a warning to Temeritt and whatever GreatLord rules there.”
Colin nodded. “I urged Cochen Oraju to do that, and he said he would. But I’m afraid the warning may come too late.”
“Should we try to warn them ourselves?”
“We don’t have time. The dwarren and the Provinces will have to fend for themselves.”
“What about the Winter Tree?” Siobhaen asked. When Colin turned, he found her propped up on her elbows, her dark eyes concerned. “Have they attacked the Winter Tree? Is Caercaern in trouble as well?”
“The Wraiths haven’t targeted the Winter Tree yet. At least, not that I could sense through the Summer Tree. The Source doesn’t border on the Winter Tree’s influence.”
“And what about the Spring Tree?” Eraeth said, one eyebrow raised, his tone casual.
Colin shot him a hard warning look, but the Protector didn’t back down. “What makes you think there is a Spring Tree?” he asked bluntly.
“Common sense.”
Colin snorted, then noticed Siobhaen had sat up completely, her attention focused on Colin far too intently.
“Very few have asked about the Spring Tree,” Colin said guardedly. “I gave one Tree to each race, so that there would be no squabbling, no preferential treatment or sense of entitlement from anyone. But the fourth Tree. …”
“Where is it?” Siobhaen asked.
Colin settled a dark glare on her, frowning, then said curtly, “I have told no one where it is hidden, and there is no need for anyone to know. All you need to know is that it is safe and that it is well protected.”
When Siobhaen drew breath to press him further, he moved toward his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle, his staff set across his lap. He glowered down at both of them, noted Eraeth’s unequivocal acceptance of his assertion and Siobhaen’s blatant doubt and interest.
“We need to keep moving if we’re going to stay ahead of the dwarren army underground,” he said.
Then he kneed his horse into motion and headed out onto the empty plains, not waiting for either of them.
Moiran sat in her personal chambers in the Rhyssal House manse in Artillien, papers scattered across the small, low table before the settee where she reclined. Incense burned in a brazier of dwarren fashion on a pedestal in one corner, the fragrance sharp and spicy. The wood-paneled walls glowed in the light of a dozen candles strewn around the room on other tables of various sizes and shapes. A few held potted plants, vines hanging down to the floor, while others sported glass art from artisans across Wrath Suvane. Three additional chairs surrounded the main table at Moiran’s right, used when the ladies of the other Houses of the Evant visited, even though such occurrences were rare. The Ilvaeren-the equivalent of the Evant but run by the women, dealing with the trade agreements between the Houses-only met for a bonding of a lord, when a new lady would be introduced to the Ilvaeren, or upon the death of one of their own. There was simply no need otherwise. They could handle all of the necessary transactions through sealed letter and courier.
Moiran currently considered one such letter, tilting the parchment toward the sunlight coming in from the window and frowning. Lady Yssabo’s handwriting was elegant, her use of the quill superb, but the perfection of her letters could not blunt the refusal behind her words. She had no remaining grain to trade with Rhyssal House, she said. Vivaen, the Lady of House Licaeta, had asked for a larger than usual supply of barley and flax nearly two weeks before and she had seen no reason to refuse at the time. She sent her regrets.
Moiran lowered the letter, lips pursed, brow furrowed.
“If Father were here, and could see your face, he would apologize profusely for whatever he had done wrong.”
Moiran turned to find Fedaureon standing in the open doorway, a tight smile on his lips, a missive clutched in one hand, the paper crumpled. Daevon hovered behind him, unobstrusive. Even though Fedaureon’s words had been joking, they were tense.
Like his shoulders.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “And would he be wrong to apologize?”
Fedaureon shook his head with a small laugh. “Probably not.”
Her gaze dropped to the paper in his hand. “Is that from Aeren?”
Fedaureon stepped into the room, taking a seat across from her as she set the letter from Lady Yssabo on top of the pages on the table before her. Daevon took up a station to one side of the door. “It is. He sends word on the opening of the Evant. It isn’t good.”
He handed her the missive, ignoring her sharp glance. She smoothed the wrinkled parchment across her knee, Aeren’s smooth print soothing in its familiarity. He had departed for Caercaern with his escort of Phalanx and a covey of servants over three weeks before. He would already have spoken to many of the lords as they arrived, before the Evant was called into session. The Evant would have convened only three days ago.
As the realization struck, she looked up, eyes widening. “How can this be about the opening of the Evant? There hasn’t been enough time for a courier to arrive. Unless…”
“Two horses were ridden to death to bring this to us as fast as possible.”
When Fedaureon didn’t continue, she turned her attention to the letter. She read it fast, her breath quickening as the implications began to dawn on her, even as she murmured, “This isn’t possible. How could Thaedoren have allowed this? The Order of Aielan has always been separate from the Evant. Always. And now it is the equivalent of one of the Houses?”
“So it appears.” Fedaureon’s tone was serious, but Moiran couldn’t help but hear the youth in it. She didn’t think he understood what this would mean to the Evant, what it would mean to the stability of the Alvritshai.
