second stared grimly out over the field behind. The call of a horn split the air as he reached him and turned.
Behind, on the far side of the field, at the edge of the forest from which they’d come, at least two garrisons of Legion archers stood, arrows trained on the remains of the Alvritshai who’d attacked them as well as the encampment a short distance away. At least half of the heads of the arrows had been dipped in pitch and set afire.
Without a sound, the arrows were released, arcing up and over into the Horde’s supply wagons. The rest were released into the charging Alvritshai, bodies falling, enough that the group veered off toward their own encampment and the rest of the reserve forces scrambling under the attack.
“What’s happening?” Curtis asked, coming up on Gregson’s left. He still held the boy in his arms. The rest of the Legion who had survived the flight across the field were gathering behind him.
“It appears that the Legion is attacking the Horde’s supply wagons.”
“So they weren’t here to help us?”
Gregson turned to face Terson after another volley of arrows was released. “No. We were lucky.”
“What do we do?” one of the civilians asked uncertainly. “Do we join them?”
Gregson shook his head. Weariness had settled onto his shoulders, the girl in his arms suddenly too heavy. He wanted to set her down, wanted to simply sit down himself, lean back against a tree and let the tensions of the past few weeks drain from him.
But they weren’t done yet.
He sighed. “Gather up whoever you can find in the immediate area. We need to make it to the Legion’s main line. This isn’t our battle.”
He needed to find one of his superiors, a lieutenant commander or a commander, perhaps even a lord. GreatLord Kobel needed to know what had happened to Cobble Kill, Patron’s Merge, and the surrounding area.
If he didn’t know already.
20
Thaedoren set the missive Lord Aeren had delivered aside and, without looking toward the lord, stood and moved away from the table beneath the shade of the portico and out to the edge of the Tamaell’s personal gardens. He had elected to have Aeren brought here instead of to an audience chamber on the spur of the moment, but now he was glad they were confined to a single room.
His first reaction upon reading the letter sent by Fedaureon-Aeren’s son and his own half brother-had been a gut-wrenching denial, followed by a painful constriction in his chest. But he knew his mother, knew Aeren would not have brought this information to his attention unless there was substantial evidence that what they had discovered was true. But the implications, not only to the Evant, but to him personally.…
The hollow that had carved out a niche in his stomach began to fill with anger. Orraen and Peloroun, in collusion. Peloroun was not a surprise; he had always had ambition, even during Thaedoren’s father’s reign, but Orraen? He had attempted to raise his House within the Evant since the death of his father, but he was young and unskilled, his manipulations of the other lords inept. Which might explain why he would seek out someone stronger, someone more subtle, such as Peloroun. But why would Peloroun deign to ally himself with Orraen?
Unless Orraen had learned subtlety. Perhaps he discounted him too easily. Or perhaps Orraen was being led by someone else. He didn’t think Peloroun would spare the time, his disdain for the younger Lords of the Evant obvious, but who else…?
Something twisted inside him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Acid burned at the back of his throat, and he hunched forward, trying to control the sudden pain in his chest.
“I would not have brought this to you if-”
“No.” Thaedoren’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and turned, met Lord Aeren’s gaze. “No, I needed to know this. You realize the ramifications? You realize that if Orraen is involved-”
“That it brings the Tamaea under suspicion as well, yes.”
Thaedoren suppressed a shudder, hid his reaction by moving back to the table. “She may have nothing to do with it,” he said as he reached for the decanter of wine and poured himself a glass. The vintage did little to smother the sour taste in his mouth. It didn’t matter if Reanne was involved or not, the fact that she could be involved was enough to taint his thoughts. Every time he saw her now, he would wonder; every time she spoke he would ask whether the words came from her heart, or were for her House. He was already running through all of their past conversations, breaking them apart, searching for hidden intent.
“I’ve been a fool,” he muttered.
“Because you succumbed to her interest? You knew as Tamaell that there were those who would seek you out because of your title. And as Tamaell, you knew that your bonding would be made more for political reasons than emotions.”
“I should have realized there was more to it!” he snapped. His lungs felt thick with fluid. His eyes burned.
Aeren remained silent a moment. Then: “If she is involved, then she and Orraen have planned this for years. And I refuse to believe that Reanne is so heartless that she has no feelings for you, Thaedoren. I have seen you both at parties, at rituals in the Sanctuary, at your own bonding.”
Thaedoren sucked in a sharp breath, recalling the bonding ceremony, the white cloth that had filled the gardens beneath the Winter Tree, the lanterns hung from the branches above, the scent of the gaezel roasting in the fire pits and the mad swirl of music. Reanne had glowed in the folds of her white gown, like the flames of Aielan brought to life. In a rare show of public emotion, he had reached out to touch her face, there before the assembled Lords and Ladies of the Evant, before the basin of Aielan’s Flame that burned before them all. He had traced her jaw and stared into her eyes, and now, thinking back, he could see nothing in her gaze but joy.
“Perhaps,” he said roughly. “But that doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Aeren straightened where he sat. “Of course it does, Thaedoren.”
He swallowed more wine, grimaced, and set the glass aside. “What are they up to? What can we do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand why they would need these resources, and as Fedaureon and Moiran point out, having them accumulate these resources isn’t in itself damning. It’s merely an indicator that perhaps they are aligned in some way. And that they are preparing.”
“For what?”
“I can only imagine a grab for the Evant. We know that has been Peloroun’s objective for decades. Even more so since his fall after the Escarpment.”
Thaedoren frowned. What Aeren said made sense, and yet it didn’t feel right. Or at least, not complete. There was something beneath what Aeren suggested, something deeper that Aeren held back, and he thought he knew what it was.
“You think they’re working with Lotaern.”
Aeren stilled, then said warily, “There’s nothing to suggest it.”
Thaedoren scowled. “But that’s what you think.” He paused in thought, factoring in the Chosen, then shook his head. “I should never have made the Order equivalent to a House.”
Aeren’s lips thinned. “Why did you?”
“I thought it might end the conflict between you and Lotaern, or at least settle it once and for all. You wanted him out of the Evant, but it was clear that many of the lords-and a significant portion of the general population-felt the Order should have its say as well, especially with the resurgence of the sukrael. By solidifying the Order’s presence in the Evant, I thought you would turn your energies elsewhere, into curbing him legally if nothing else.”
“Was it Reanne’s idea?” Aeren asked bluntly.
The accusation stabbed into Thaedoren’s gut, hard, but he shook his head. “No. It was mine.” At Aeren’s look of doubt, he added with emphasis, “Solely mine.”
“Regardless, Lotaern took it as an implicit blessing of his actions. You’ve seen him in the Evant. He’s become aggressive, pursuing his own interests with abandon, and using Aielan and the existence of the Wraiths as his prod. If Peloroun and Orraen are working with him, he holds three out of nine votes, and you know a few of the other
