the duller browns and yellows of the cultivated fields interrupted the greenery.
The group drew to a halt at the gates, Eraeth and Aeren nudging their horses forward to speak to the waiting sentries. A caitan of the Resue House Phalanx-also called the White Phalanx-stepped forward to greet them, and Aeren frowned, a shiver of dread coursing through his body. Resue was the Tamaell’s House.
The Phalanx caitan bowed formally. “Word of your arrival has already reached Tamaell Fedorem’s ears,” he said as he rose, “as well as that of your… guest.” The caitan’s eyes flicked toward Colin, conspicuous on his mount because of his shorter stature and darker skin, even though he wore the Rhyssal House colors. “He requests your presence in his private gardens.”
Aeren scanned the caitan’s accompanying Phalanx, all dressed in the white and red colors of House Resue, all standing at formal attention, faces rigid, revealing nothing. “I intended to visit my own House chambers, to wash the dust of the road from my face,” he said, “and to prepare.”
The caitan shifted, although his features did not change. “The Tamaell wishes to see you immediately. You may honor your House with your presence later.”
“Very well.” Aeren bowed his head to the caitan. “My Protector will accompany me. The rest of my Phalanx will retire to my rooms, along with my guest.”
The caitan returned the nod, then motioned to the members of the Tamaell’s Phalanx that accompanied him. They formed up around Aeren’s group, taking positions of honor, rather than a more formal escort, and Aeren relaxed slightly. A few remained with the caitan.
He shared a glance with Eraeth as the escort led the others away.
They were led through the sunlit streets of the first three tiers up into the enclosed fourth tier, the Tamaell’s public chambers. The halls were immaculate, leaves and vines threading up the stone columns set into the walls, murals and friezes around every corner, the ceiling painted to resemble the sky, pale blue, with clouds lining the horizon, the blue fading into a soft, brilliant yellow like the sun at intersecting corridors. Members of the White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s House guards, moved about among aides and couriers in House Resue colors, mingling with Phalanx bearing a few other House colors. Audience chambers, dining halls, and other rooms opened off to either side, filled with chairs and tables, plants and statues, all placed with elegant care, yet somehow ostentatious.
They ascended to the fifth tier. Aeren had only been into these upper rooms a few times. This was the Tamaell’s private tier, and it was significantly different. The walls were a flat polished white stone, the support columns rectangular but without detailed carvings. A few statues and urns and delicately pruned trees were placed in artful locations, lit by angled slants of sunlight from hidden windows. The ceilings were again painted in skyscapes, but the streaming cloud formations all swept inward, toward a central location, the outermost edges the pale white of horizon, shifting from a faint green to a deep blue, then to pale yellow-as if the clouds were tinged with the light of sunset-then deepening to pink and a burnished orange. Near the center of the array of rooms, the orange shifted into a shimmering gold, as if the central chambers were lit by the sun itself.
Spread throughout the chambers, stationed at corners and outside the Tamaell’s private doors, were pairs of White Phalanx, their gazes flickering over Aeren and Eraeth with cold appraisal, noting weapons and faces, even though they were accompanied by one of their own caitans.
They drew near the central chambers, close enough that Aeren thought the Tamaell had changed his mind and intended to meet with them in his own private rooms, but at the last moment the caitan turned into a side corridor, and within twenty paces they stepped out onto a wide, walled garden, a series of steps leading down to stone paths and a lush carpet of grass. A cascade of water from the mountain heights above splashed down from the rock face and spilled into a clear pool near the garden’s edge, a stream winding through the sculpted trees and shrubs and flowers before escaping through a hidden grate on the far side.
The Tamaell stood in a small grotto to the left, and Aeren was startled to see the Tamaea Moiran, his wife, kneeling in the grass beside him, calmly trimming one of the shrubs with careful, precise snips of a pair of pruning shears. Both were dressed in the white and red of the Resue House, but the style was casual, not the formal dress of the Evant. He frowned when he noticed Lord Khalaek sitting to one side, his attention on the Tamaell, whose gaze rested on the hazy distance.
“-what we have seen,” Lord Khalaek said, turning as the caitan led Aeren and Eraeth down the wide steps to the grass beneath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Aeren, “what Lord Waerren has seen, I should say, is a decrease in the activity along the Province bordering his House lands. He claims that the Legion has pulled back from the border. Not completely-they’ve left a small force behind in the major cities-but for the most part the Legion has retreated to the port cities. An increase in the number of ships being built has been noted as well, although of course these new ships are not expected to be complete until next year at the earliest.”
“And Lord Waerren believes this is due to the recent attacks on the human Provinces by the Andovans?” Tamaell Fedorem asked.
The caitan halted a short distance from where the Tamaell, the Tamaea, and Lord Khalaek had gathered and waited to be recognized. Khalaek’s black eyes had not left Aeren since he entered, but Aeren ignored him, focusing on the Tamaell, who still stood with his back to him.
The Tamaea had stood as they approached, and now she dismissed the caitan with a smooth motion of her hand, then bowed toward Aeren. “It is good to see you safely returned, Lord Aeren,” she said, and as she raised her head, something flashed through her gray eyes-a flicker of caution or warning, hidden swiftly behind her vibrant smile. She stepped forward to grip both of his shoulders and formally greet him with a kiss to each cheek. Before drawing back, her face turned away so that neither Khalaek nor Fedorem could see, she breathed, “Tread lightly,” so softly that Aeren felt the words against his skin more than heard them.
Leaning back, she scanned him up and down, noting the dust and dirt on his clothes with a raised eyebrow and frown. “After Lord Barak returned and informed us of what had happened in Portstown, we were concerned. Where have you been? He said you’d traveled by land from Corsair. Whatever for?”
“That,” Tamaell Fedorem said, “is precisely the question I would like answered.”
The Tamaell had turned from his perusal of the city. He regarded Aeren with cold green eyes, his face completely expressionless, his posture at odds with the relaxed setting, shoulders stiff, hands clasped behind his back. He looked older than Aeren remembered, his skin paler, yet darkened beneath his eyes, haggard with lack of sleep.
But not dulled. Aeren could see the hardness beneath the weariness, could hear it in his voice when he spoke.
“I thought this venture to the Provinces by you and Lord Barak was to begin talks about trade agreements.”
“It was,” Aeren said, aware that Lord Khalaek sat to one side. “And we succeeded to some degree. I’m certain he’s reported that a few of the Governors have signed tentative agreements that will need to be formalized before the Evant.” The Tamaell had begun to relax, but he stiffened again as Aeren continued. “But there was another purpose to the trip as well. I went to Corsair in the hopes of opening a dialogue with King Stephan.”
“A dialogue concerning… what?”
The Tamaell’s voice was flat, without inflection.
“The possibility of an alliance between the Provinces and the Evant, between humans and Alvritshai.”
Absolute silence fell on the small garden, interrupted only by the rush of the water from the falls behind the tower. Aeren kept his eyes locked on the Tamaell; he saw irritation crease his forehead, his lips twitch, before shifting into a frown.
“And how did King Stephan react to this proposal?” the Tamaell asked softly.
“He was… enraged.”
Khalaek snorted, but Aeren noted that the Tamaell’s shoulders sagged as if he were disappointed, even as he turned slightly away.
“Did you expect anything less?” Khalaek said. “The humans are reckless, ruled by emotion, quick to anger, King Stephan the worst among them.”
“Because we slaughtered his father under the pretense of an alliance,” Aeren snapped, his anger rising sharp and unexpected at the derisive tone in Khalaek’s voice. He reined it in swiftly, his hands clenching at his sides. He felt Eraeth at his back, knew that his Protector had slid forward in mute warning in an attempt to restrain him, but the gesture wasn’t necessary. He hadn’t traveled so far to lose everything now because of his hatred of one lord, because of his hatred of that lord’s betrayal at the Escarpment.
