Moiran snorted and shoved against the door, blinking at the blinding sunlight after the dimness of the room even as she stumbled out into the fresh air. She could not stand the scent of the oil and smoke any longer, could not breathe the stifling air or suffer the words of the warrior acolyte. Rage boiling through her, she walked down the steps of the temple and onto the road leading back toward the manse, moving too fast, Sylvea trotting to keep up.
“He should never have been allowed to remain on Rhyssal House lands,” Moiran spat.
“What do you intend to do?” Sylvea gasped.
What could she do? She had no power to order the Rhyssal House Phalanx down to the temple to seize the acolytes or the Order of the Flame. Not even Fedaureon could order that. The temple was considered part of the Order, the ground itself now part of the equivalent of another House. It was an invasion of the Rhyssal House lands, and yet it had been sanctioned by the Evant. Any action against the temple would be declared an action against another House, practically a declaration of war.
But wasn’t this war? Weren’t the words the temple and the Order were spreading a declaration of war against Aeren and the Rhyssal House?
She grunted and shook her head. That wasn’t for her to decide. That was for Aeren to decide.
“Lord Aeren must be informed,” she said sharply.
And as long as she was writing Aeren to warn him of the Order’s betrayal, she would tell him of the Order’s connection to the shifting of supplies in the Ilvaeren as well.
21
Quotl drew on his pipe, savoring the taste of the smoke as he sucked it into his lungs and held it before exhaling slowly into the night. The air was chill, the sky clear, the stars brittle overhead. A sickle moon hovered over the horizon, casting little light. He sat, legs crossed, near the edge of the southern ridge of the Break, the Shadow Moon Riders’ encampment behind him. Below, beyond the bottom of the landslide, the fires of the Painted Sands and his own Thousand Spring Riders were bright sparks on the blackened desert. He couldn’t see the network of ditches and barricades they’d built over the last few days in preparation for the defense of the Break, but he knew they were there.
He also knew they wouldn’t hold.
He frowned as he heard footsteps behind him, turning as Azuka settled down beside him a few moments later. The younger shaman did not look at him, head tilted toward the stars above and then the fires below.
Annoyance tightened Quotl’s chest. “I came here to be alone.”
“No,” Azuka countered. “You came because the Wraith army will arrive tonight. You are not the only one who can read the signs.”
Quotl scowled, then took another draw from his pipe. “Even the clan chiefs can see the signs.”
“True.”
After a long moment of silence, the sounds of the dwarren encampment behind them quiet and removed, Azuka motioned toward the fires below and the distant northern ridge where Claw Lake camped. “Will we be able to hold them?”
Quotl sighed. “Only Ilacqua knows the outcome, and even he seems uncertain. I have given the Cochen and the other clan chiefs what advice I could, based on the signs. I’m certain the Archon has done the same.”
“But will it work?”
Quotl turned, chewing on the end of his pipe. In the darkness, even sitting a few hands apart, he could barely see Azuka. He considered telling Azuka the truth, but like Tarramic, he didn’t think Azuka wanted the truth. He wanted reassurance.
Quotl settled for the middle ground. “As you said, Azuka, you can read the signs as well as I.”
Azuka grimaced.
Quotl turned away, drew on the pipe again, but winced and tapped the ashes from the bowl onto the rocky ground before him. The smoke had turned bitter.
A moment later, something flew past overhead, wings flapping like the folds of a tent belling in a breeze. Both he and Azuka shot startled looks skyward, caught a shape blotting out the stars above. They watched it as it cut westward swiftly, then banked, circled back around, and vanished to the east.
“They’re coming,” Azuka murmured.
Quotl pointed with his pipe. “They’re already here.”
Far out beyond the fires of the dwarren encampment below, firelight had begun to flicker in the darkness, so faint it could only be seen when Quotl shifted his eyes slightly to one side. But as they watched, the light grew and spread north and south. Below, drums suddenly sounded, announcing the army’s arrival in case those on the ridge hadn’t yet seen it, but also warning the Cochen and his forces to the south. The edge of the army advanced, until Quotl tensed and thought they didn’t intend to stop, that they’d attack tonight, in the darkness. Behind, the Shadow Moon Riders stirred, many of them coming to the edge of the cliff to watch, their presence felt more than seen. Conversations sifted through the night, broken by grim laughter, the sound of hands slapping backs in encouragement, but the humor was forced.
Everyone fell silent when the torches of the Wraith army finally halted, the faint cry of a horn piercing the night, echoed from the north and south. Quotl relaxed.
“There are so many,” Azuka said.
Quotl grunted, stuck his pipe into its leather holder slung around his neck, then stood, placing a steadying hand on Azuka’s shoulder.
“Come. We must make certain the shamans are ready. The Wraith army will not wait. They will attack tomorrow.”
“Quotl, wake up.”
Quotl grunted, one hand reaching up to grasp Azuka’s shoulder unconsciously as he jerked out of sleep. Azuka’s eyes were wide with fear. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Azuka shook his head. “It’s dawn. The army-” He swallowed. “The Riders are gathering.”
“Dawn?” Quotl bolted upright, gazed blearily about the tent, rubbing at a twinge of muscle in his back. He blinked at the faint light-
Then suddenly remembered where they were, what awaited them.
He scrambled to his feet, began gathering his scepter, his satchel, tucking his pipe bag inside. He’d slept in his clothes. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he demanded harshly, searching for the smaller totems tucked into pockets and braided into his beard.
“You worked late into the night, preparing,” Azuka snapped back. “I thought to give you as much rest as possible.”
Quotl growled, surprised he’d been able to sleep at all. “I don’t need sleep. I need to be prepared! And now-”
The hollow cadence of drums interrupted him. He listened intently, then swore and shoved past Azuka and out of the tent.
Three other shamans stood outside, all looking east, toward the backs of the dwarren army and the sound of the drums. All of the dwarren within sight were looking in that direction.
“I brought you your mount,” Azuka said as he emerged from the tent behind him.
Quotl spun and saw five gaezels waiting to one side. Without a word, he sprinted toward his mount, paused a moment to pat the beast’s flank, then swung himself up onto its back, careful of the horns. The animal danced beneath his weight, then pawed the ground, neck straining forward.
Not waiting for the others, Quotl allowed it the lead.
It dug in and leaped, Quotl hunching down as far as its horns would allow. Shouts rang out from behind. To either side, he saw others scrambling to mount, some already sprinting toward the two gathered clans, but most of the dwarren were already on the battlefield.
Quotl cursed himself. He must have slept through the initial call of the drums.
