Reaching down with the tongs, he lifted the heartwood up and thrust it into the heart of the bed of coals, sparks whirling upward as flame rose with a hiss. Pain prickled his skin as the embers landed against his exposed face, but he held the tongs steady, gasping as the heat stole his breath and burned his throat and lungs. He pulled the heartwood out, noted the scorch marks along its sides, felt the pulse of the forest still residing within. Yet the wood hadn’t softened; he could sense it through the tongs.
“Too soon,” he hissed through clenched teeth, and thrust it back into the inferno. He counted slowly in his head, removed it again, the wood beginning to char, thrust it back with a curse.
The third time he pulled it from the coals, it burst into flame. As he stumbled backward in surprise, he felt the life-force inside it die. Before he could drop it, before the disappointment of this new failure could sink in, the length of wood hissed and then exploded, like the boles of trees at the heart of a raging forest fire.
He cried out, dropping the tongs as he protected his face and lurched out into the white ruins of the city surrounding the Well. The coolness of the forest air seered his lungs as harshly as the heat inside the forge, and he fell to his knees. He bellowed at the sky, his clothes flecked with smoking splinters of the heartwood, his chest constricted with raw frustration.
Osserin and the other Faelehgre found him there, head bowed forward where he knelt, sobbing. They calmed him down and after he tried the forge again with the same results, he gathered another length of wood from the heart of the forest and traveled to Caercaern, to speak to Aeren.
The Lord of House Rhyssal held the heartwood in his hands, turned it in the firelight of his inner chamber. He ran his fingers over the reddish wood, flecked with striations of burnt yellow and ridged like bark. “Have you taken it to Lotaern?” he asked.
Colin grimaced. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve come, to see if he has any insights into how to mold it. But since my arrival with the Winter Tree and the disastrous gathering of the Evant that ended with the planting of the Tree in the marketplace, he and I have barely spoken.”
A smile touched Aeren’s lips as he set the heartwood down and rewrapped it in the cloth Colin had carried it in. “He did not appreciate the responsibility of the Tree being thrust upon him, no. But he has managed to wield the unexpected responsibility to his advantage. My expectation that it would deter his rise in power in the Evant was, perhaps, incorrect.”
“What has he done?”
Aeren glanced up, one hand on the supple cloth that now covered the heartwood. Behind him, Eraeth stood near the entrance to the chamber. “You haven’t been following the events in Alvritshai lands since the quickening of the Tree?”
“I’ve been busy, Aeren, trying to balance the awakening of the Wells, battling the sukrael in the lands not protected by the Seasonal Trees, battling the Wraiths.”
“Battling Walter, you mean.”
Aeren frowned at the interruption of his Protector, Eraeth’s voice barely a murmur. But then he focused on the bundle nestled among the stacks of papers and other detritus of the maintenance of a House of the Evant. “Is that who this is for? Walter?”
“For all of the Wraiths and the Shadows,” Colin said, and heard the defensiveness in his voice. He sighed. “But yes, this is for Walter.”
“It’s been seventy-two years since the battle at the Escarpment and the signing of the Accord. Walter and the Wraiths have caused little problem since the planting of the Trees thirty-three years ago.”
“Not here on Alvritshai lands, or where the other two Seasonal Trees hold sway, but outside of their influence…” Colin shook his head. “Walter and the Wraiths are only biding their time. The Trees were not meant to last forever.”
“How long
Colin shrugged. “I don’t know. I suspect hundreds of years, or longer, because of the Lifeblood they are imbued with. But we will need a way to defend against the Shadows and the Wraiths no matter when the Trees fail.”
Aeren’s eyebrows rose. “And this has nothing to do with Walter and what happened between the two of you?”
Colin said nothing, his brow creasing in irritation. For a moment, he felt the wooden bars of the penance lock across his neck, biting into his wrists. He felt Walter’s foot connecting with his stomach, Walter’s arm pressed into his throat, choking him.
The memories caused his hands to clench into fists.
Aeren sighed, and Colin saw Eraeth nod knowingly. “Eraeth, have someone bring us some wine, perhaps some bread and cheese.”
Eraeth moved to the door as Aeren motioned Colin to the balcony. They stepped out into the night air, chill even though it was nearing summer. Nights in Caercaern were always cold, and the temples of Aielan had rung the chimes for cotiern hours ago. Colin moved to the edge of the balcony, hands resting on the lip of stone, and glared out over what he could see of the tiered city. The streets of the third tier were empty, only a few windows glowing softly with lantern light. From the second tier, the Winter Tree cleaved the cloudless night, its silver leaves shimmering in the moonlight. Colin kept his eyes on the Tree, a new wall surrounding the marketplace where it had been planted.
“Does this mean that you won’t help?” he asked. His breath fogged the air with bitterness.
“No. You and I both know how dangerous the sukrael are, how deadly the Wraiths. But I will not help you out of any need for vengeance. I’ll help because, as you say, the Wraiths and the sukrael-including Walter-have not vanished. They will return at some point to plague us. You are letting your personal feelings blind you. I can see the tension in your shoulders, in your stance.”
Colin’s hands gripped the edge of the stone hard enough he could feel grit scraping free beneath his fingers. He drew in a deep breath… and then exhaled sharply, releasing the stone and pushing back from the edge, trying to calm himself. He caught Aeren’s gaze where the Lord stood in the half-light coming from the inner room and shook his head with a troubled smile.
“You’re right. I’ve been working on the heartwood and practically nothing else for too long. I’ve lost myself to the effort, the failure upon failure.…”
“You are too hard on yourself. You’ve done more than expected in our efforts to fight the sukrael and the Wraiths. You brought us the Winter Tree-even if the gift was unexpected and, perhaps, unwanted by some. And you’ve managed to halt the preternatural storms that plagued the plains, as well as the occumaen, by balancing out the power of the Wells.”
“None of that has solved the real problem. It’s only bought us time.”
Before Aeren could answer, Eraeth appeared behind him, accompanied by a servant with a platter of wine, bread, and cheese. Aeren motioned for the servant to set the platter to one side and then dismissed him. He poured each of them a glass, Colin raising his wine and drinking without really tasting it, still thinking about the heartwood, about Walter, about the Shadows.
Aeren joined him at the balcony, stared out at the Winter Tree, then said casually, “Perhaps you need a different kind of fire for this heartwood… a different kind of forge.”
“Like what?” Colin muttered in frustration.
“What about Aielan’s Light?”
In the confines of the meeting room within the Order of Aielan, Colin grunted and shook his head. It had taken him a moment on that chill night over forty years ago to understand that Aeren did not mean the metaphorical Light that the Alvritshai used as a representation of Aielan, but the literal white fire that lay in the depths of the Alvritshai mountains of Hauttaeran. Every acolyte of the Order of Aielan must at some point immerse themselves in the white flames hidden in the catacombs and halls that riddled the mountains behind Caercaern before they could become true members of the Order. Aeren had done so before the deaths of his father and elder brother had forced him to ascend as Lord of his House and give up his ties to the Order. Occasionally, he wore the pendant that signified his passage. Colin had entered the white flames himself in the years following the Accord, after studying the Scripts of the Order as if he were an acolyte himself, although he had never officially been part of the Order. He couldn’t become a true member, since he wasn’t Alvritshai.
