“And you would have listened?” Lotaern growled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his body turned slightly away from the Tamaell. “Listened to the word of a human, brought to you by one of the lords of the Evant, a known rival of Lord Khalaek?”
Aeren stiffened at the tension he felt between the two-Lotaern and the Tamaell-but forced himself to relax. The leader of the Order and the ruler of the Alvritshai had opposed each other since Fedorem had ascended within the Evant. Lotaern wanted more power, for himself and for the Order. Fedorem felt the Order had no place in the Evant. The argument was old and had lasted for decades.
“I would have listened to the Chosen of the Order!” Fedorem spat. “Especially regarding the sarenavriell and the sukrael. You are the holder of the Scripts. This is your domain.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Lotaern turned and faced the Tamaell directly, one eyebrow raised. “The sarenavriell, the ruanavriell-all of the five powers-are under the mantle of Aielan’s Light and as such are the Order’s concern, not the Evant’s. Unless I have reason to believe they will somehow affect the Alvritshai directly, there is no need for me to report to you.”
“The Order does not consider the involvement of one of the Lords of the Evant a direct assault on the Alvritshai?”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I did not realize until recently that Lord Khalaek was involved,” he hissed. “If I had known…”
He trailed off in furious indignation.
The Tamaell straightened. “And what of these men?” Fedorem demanded, motioning toward the members of the Order working to clean up the damage done by the occumaen. “This Order of the Flame? The creation of an army within the Order, trained in secret? What is the Evant to make of that?”
His voice had gone dangerously quiet. Lotaern met the challenge silently, the two glaring at each other in the firelit darkness.
“You have overstepped the bounds of the Order,” Fedorem said quietly.
“We shall see,” Lotaern growled.
Aeren stepped between the two, catching their attention. “Right now-” he nodded to where Lotaern’s men were lifting up a collapsed tent, one of the men crying out and bending over a limp body “-it’s unimportant.”
Both Lotaern and Fedorem watched in silence as one of the members of the Order of the Flame grabbed the body beneath the arms and lifted, another taking the legs. They carried the man’s corpse to one side, out of the reach of the torchlight, murmuring the litany for the dead, their words fading into the night.
The animosity between the Chosen and the Tamaell lessened, Lotaern bowing his head a moment, eyes closed.
When he looked back up, he said to Aeren, “What have you told him?”
“Everything that Colin has told us.”
“Then there isn’t much more I can explain.” His voice was still cold. “The sarenavriell have existed since the Scripts were written, have existed since before the last time the world Turned, even before that.”
“And the sukrael?” Fedorem asked.
Lotaern hesitated. “It was thought that the sukrael and the Faelehgre had existed as long as the sarenavriell, that they had been established as guardians and protectors. That is how they are depicted in the Scripts.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. “But since then I’ve spoken to Shaevaren at length about his time in the forest, his time among the Faelehgre and near the sarenavriell. It seems that the sukrael and the Faelehgre are more prisoners than guardians. And now they’ve found a way to escape, in a limited way. I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can tell you than that. I do not know how they are awakening the sarenavriell. I do not know how they created the Wraiths.”
Fedorem frowned. “And what about the occumaen? Is there a connection between it and the sukrael?”
Lotaern grimaced, but then he paused, brow creasing in concentration. Almost reluctantly, he said, “It’s possible. The sukrael have been awakening powers long left dormant. It may be having unintended or unexpected consequences. But if there is a connection, I think it’s just that: unintended. I don’t think the sukrael are creating the occumaen on purpose. They have a different agenda.”
“It would explain why they’ve become so much larger,” Eraeth said from his place a step behind them all.
“And stronger,” Lotaern agreed. “It might also explain the increase in the number of unnatural storms on the plains as well.” He mulled the new idea over in his head, considering the possibilities.
Fedorem fell silent for a long moment. On the far horizon, purplish-blue lightning flickered in the darkness, although there were no clouds obscuring the sky yet.
Finally, Fedorem turned. “Why? What does Lord Khalaek hope to gain from an alliance with these… Wraiths?”
No one spoke. Lotaern looked at the ground. Fedorem eyed both the Chosen and Aeren, until Aeren finally said, “We don’t know.”
Fedorem considered this, mouth downturned. “Then it’s all speculation. With Benedine dead, there’s no way to link Khalaek to the Wraiths. It would be your word against his, one lord against another. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Do you believe them?” Moiran asked as she used shears to slice blankets and cloth into thin strips for bandages by lamplight, the tent draped in shadows. Most of the material had been scavenged from the camp, from all the Lords of the Evant and what remained of her own supplies.
On the far side of the small tent-much smaller than the one they’d been using-Fedorem halted his slow pace and settled into a small chair. “Do I believe that Khalaek would infiltrate the Order with a member from his own House? Yes. Do I believe that he’d use that to help him undermine my hold on the Evant, to extend his influence? Yes. Do I believe he’d work with these Wraiths, creatures that Aeren and Lotaern claim were created by the sukrael, creatures that no one has seen or heard of except for this Shaeveran, this human named Colin?” He shook his head, brow creased, but said nothing, one hand pinching his lower lip in thought, elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
Moiran frowned. “That human… is no longer human. He saved me from the occumaen.”
“So you said.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply, and she stopped cutting, placing the shears in her lap so she could catch Fedorem’s eyes and hold them. “He didn’t simply drag me to safety. He halted time. He somehow stopped everything and gave us the chance to escape.” Something hot and hard rose up into her throat, and she felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In a choked voice, she added, “I thought the occumaen would claim me. I could feel its breath upon me, the Breath of Heaven-”
She bowed her head, fought down the heated pressure in her chest. She’d avoided the thought of the occumaen all day by burying herself in the tending of the wounded, in their pain.
She heard Fedorem rise from his seat and approach, felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re saying he is one of the Aielan-aein, that he has been Touched by Aielan.”
Moiran gave a snorting laugh, the sound thick and phlegmy. “He is more than simply Touched. He has been gifted. None of the Aielan-aein within the Order could have done what he did. None of them have shown that kind of power, that kind of strength.” She paused, thinking of the terror she’d felt as the occumaen bore down on her. “I only wish he’d been able to save Faeren and the others.”
Fedorem squeezed her shoulder once, and then his hand slipped free. Moiran noted that he looked more troubled than before as he settled back into his chair.
“That changes nothing. Even if I did believe Lord Aeren and the Chosen, it is still one lord accusing another. And in the confines of the Evant, I cannot choose between the two unless the Evant demands it.”
“Then Aeren should present his claim to the Evant.”
Fedorem shook his head again. “He won’t. Aeren knows his place in the Evant. House Rhyssal has descended in the ranks these past hundred years. It is now one of the lesser Houses. Aeren would not find the support within the Evant to even bring his accusation to the floor for serious consideration, let alone get them to hand the decision over to me. The rivalry between House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen is too well known.”
Moiran’s frown deepened as she picked up the shears again and began cutting.
“No,” Fedorem said, mostly to himself, as he rose again and moved toward the entrance to the tent. He stood before the opening, although he didn’t stoop to go outside into the night. It was late, but Moiran could still
