Colin Patris Harten-known as Shaeveran by the Alvritshai, also called Shade-slid through the grasses of the plains, the world unnaturally still around him. He carried a cedar staff given to him by the heart of the forest, its power twining around and through him. A satchel hung from his shoulder, steadied by his other hand. He moved swiftly, head bent, time slowed around him but not halted. He was too exhausted to stop the flow completely, or to press beyond the barrier and into the past. He wanted to beat the Alvritshai stronghold of Caercaern before the end of night, and he’d already traveled far. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could slow the flow of time to make the journey quicker. He’d grown in power over the last forty years-gained in strength as he used the Lifeblood to battle the ever growing threat of the Wraiths and the Shadows, and immersing himself in the cleansing heart of the White Flame and the healing waters of the Confluence-but there were limits.
And prices paid.
He was reaching the extent of his strength. He could hear it in his own ragged breathing, could feel it in the pounding of his heart and the humming of the world around him. Time pushed at him, tried to force him back into his natural state. But he wanted to reach Caercaern before the Alvritshai lords called the Evant for the last time and the lords dispersed to theirown lands for the winter months. He needed to meet with them, to get them to accept the responsibility for what he carried in his satchel.
The survival of the Alvritshai-of all of the races of Wrath Suvane: Alvritshai, dwarren, and human-depended on it.
So he shoved the increasing pressure of time back with a grunt, felt it give beneath him even as a shudder of weariness passed through his chest. He ignored it, focused on the plains ahead, on the moonlit silver of the grasses and the brittle stars in the sky. Folds in the land appeared as shadows, and by the growing darkness he could tell that he was getting closer to Alvritshai lands. He walked upon dwarren lands now, on earth he’d traveled as a child over a hundred years ago, when his parents had abandoned Portstown for the unknown wilds of the grasses to the east.
Those unknown wilds had killed them-and everyone else in their ill-fated wagon train-except for Colin.
And Walter.
Colin frowned at himself and shrugged the disturbing memories away. It had happened a long time ago, in what felt like another world, another lifetime. Wrath Suvane had changed since then. The Accord he had helped establish between the three races had held, although tenuously, strained by the continued attacks of the Shadows and the work of the Wraiths to bring about the awakening of the Wells. The dwarren retained their claim to the plains, the Alvritshai the lands to the north and the mountain reaches of Hauttaeren, and the humans the coastal region.
The Shadows and the Wraiths maintained their hold on the forests of Ostraell.
But in the past forty years, all of the races had grown. The Alvritshai had branched out along the mountains, botheast and west, carving new strongholds into their depths even though the encroaching ice sheets to the north continued to build, their original homeland still locked away beneath the frigid cold. The dwarren continued to survive beneaththe plains in their extensive warrens, although they’d begun building stone and cloth citiesat the mouths of the most prominent entrances to facilitate trade. Colin had passed one such citya few hours before, a caravan of twenty wagons headed toward its vast towers along the main road from the human province of Corsair. The humans had expanded the most, populating the coast at first, but spreading south and then east, along the sheer cliffs of the Escarpment that provided a natural boundary between dwarren and human lands. They’d spread far, although they had not yet reached the edges of the desert to the east.
But they would. The lords of the Provinces craved land and the resources that came with it. They’d succeeded in breaking free from the Court of Andover and the chokehold of the Families during the Feud, now ended. They’d seized the coast of the new world and held it in a firm grip, pushing the Andovans back. But they needed to retain that hold, and that required a strong presence in the New World.
Colin grimaced and shook his head. The affairs of the Provinces were not his concern at the moment. The expansion of the humans to the south and east had strained the treaty and relations between the three races, but the treaty had survived. That was all that mattered. The real threats were the Wraiths and the Shadows.
He hefted the satchel against his shoulder, felt the weight of it, reassuring himself that the three forged cuttings were still there, wrapped in muslin cloth for protection. He’d left the fourth cutting under the Faelehgre’s protection, until he could determine what to do with it.
As he shifted under the satchel’s weight, a light caught his attention in the distance.
He slowed, squinted to the northeast. At first he saw nothing, the urgency of reaching Caercaern on time pressing down upon his shoulders, but then he caught the light again-a familiar white light, incredibly bright.
He cursed and began running toward the light, even though he knew he was already too late.
He slowed as he neared and saw the scattering of wagons and bodies, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his throat threatening to close off. He sucked in air, tried to convince himself that he was short of breath because of the run and his exhaustion, but he knew better. The images of his own family’s wagon train, trapped at the cusp of the Ostraell, sliced too keenly across his vision. He clutched at the front of his clothes with his free hand, found and gripped the crescent-shaped pendant that hung from his neck but lay hidden beneath the cloth, as all vows should be, even if those vows had remained unfulfilled. The edges of the crescent that cradled the empty blood vial bit into his palm and fingers and he focused on that pain, used it to push thoughts of Karen’s lifeless body to one side. She’d died over a hundred years ago, on these plains, cradled close to Colin’s chest. And she’d been killed the same way these people had.
Straightening, Colin moved into the shadows of the wagons, the cedar staff held out before him, even though he had not yet allowed time to resume. He paused at the body of a young girl, no more than twelve, crumpled to the ground next to the wheel of one of the wagons. Her face was tilted toward the moonlight, her eyes wide open, her skin unnaturally pale. No blood marred her body, but the Shadows killed without tearing skin or leaving gaping wounds. Their death was more subtle, and more horrific. Colin knew. He’d nearly experienced that death himself. If it hadn’t been for the Faelehgre …
He stood, shoved aside that memory as well, and moved on to the next body. A man this time, without a mark on himbut dead nonetheless. His sword was drawn, as if he’d tried to protect the girl, but it lay useless in the grass beside him. Colin hesitated over this man-so much like his father-then continued on, moving from body to body. Men, women, a few children-they were all dead, left as they had fallen. He circled from wagon to wagon toward the center, where the Faelehgre’s light burned hideously bright, his chest tightening the closer he came. Horses, dogs, goats-everything living had fallen. The wagon train had had time to react-the typically scattered wagons drawn close for defense-but the travelers had all died nonetheless. Caught out in the open, they had possessed nothing that could have stopped the Shadows. Only one thing could have helped this close to the forest, this far from Alvritshai lands: the Faelehgre. And the one Faelehgre that had arrived had come too late.
Colin halted in the center of the death, where the pure white light of the Faelehgre shone at the heart of the shimmering folds of darkness of a Shadow. The body of a woman lay beneath them, curled protectively around a young boy, maybe five years old. Her face was buried in the crook of her arm, her tears of terror still wet on her cheeks. The night was too cool for them to evaporate.
The Shadow had been rising upward from its feast, the life-force drained from both the woman and the child, when the Faelehgre caught it. The anger the light had felt over the deaths still pulsed throughout the scene. It might have been able to repulse the attack on its own-it would have depended on how many of the Shadows had attacked, how well they were organized-but from what Colin could see, it hadn’t. Its anger had been too great. It had sped between the wagon and shot to the heart of the Shadow as it rose, had pierced it in its fury, had killed it … and killed itself in the process.
Colin lowered his staff. He reached out a hand to touch the light at the heart of the Shadow, but halted. Even with time slowed he could feel the coldness of the folds of darkness that made up the Shadow. He wondered briefly if he’d known this particular Faelehgre, suspected he had.
He let his arm fall back to his side. There was nothing that could be done here. The pulsing light of the Faelehgre would slowly absorb the darkness of the Shadow and then vanish. The wagon travelers were dead, and there were too many for him to bury or burn. Not if he was to make Caercaern before dawn. And his purpose in the Alvritshai city was to prevent attacks such as these, to protect the Alvritshai, the dwarren, and the humans from the Shadows. He needed to keep moving.
Gripping his staff tightly, binding his grief and sorrow and hatred close-a hatred that had survived undamped for over a hundred years-he struck out northward.
Caercaern and the lords of the Alvritshai waited.
Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony outside his House rooms in Caercaern and stared out at the lightening horizon as dawn approached. Spread out on the stone terraces beneath him, the city had begun to come to life. The majority of Caercaern lay on these terraces, behind the stone walls of the fortress, although there were more rooms and halls carved out of the depths of the mountain behind him. Thousands of tunnels and hundreds of rooms, leading all the way through the Hauttaeren to the northern wastes, all abandoned.
Now, the Alvritshai had spread out onto the hills and valleys below, the forested peaks beginning to emerge into the light, covered in thick mist. The terraces of Caercaern proper weren’t hidden, though, and he could see people beginning to fill the streets: errand boys racing from level to level; the White Phalanx changing shift; bakers and tavernkeepers and merchants beginning to open shops or carting wares up to the wide plazas and open markets. He could see the round Hall of the Evant in the central marketplace, its thick colonnades shadowing the main building within. The stone obelisks of the Order of Aielan’s temple rose into the graying light. And if he turned, he could see the rising levels of the main tower, where the Tamaell resided with his ruling House, the mountains of the Hauttaeren behind it, streams and falls cascading down its stone face, runoff from the snows that covered the peaks year round. The mountain range cut a jagged swath east and west, keeping the snows and the glacial drifts that had driven the Alvritshai southward locked in the north. But Aeren didn’t turn to gaze along the mountains and their white peaks. They represented the past. He preferred to look out toward the future, toward the dense forests, valleys, and hills that stretched from here to the southern plains. Even now, he could see the spires and tiled roofs of buildings jutting up from the mists, emerging as the light increased.
The temple of the Order of Aielan began to chime utiern and Aeren glanced toward the east, where a thin arc of reddish-gold sun had slid above the horizon. Dawn.
He grunted and drew in a long, deep breath, tasted the chill bite of the coming winter, frigid against his tongue, then exhaled in an extended sigh as he heard footsteps behind him.
Arms wrapped around his waist and a chin rested against his shoulder. He drew in the scent of jasmine as his hands enfolded those at his waist, the body behind pressing up against his back.
“You should not be seen here, with me,” he said. The words could have been a slap in the face-they had been, the first time he spoke them-but the tone had changed over time. Now they throbbed with humor, with the memory of that first unintentional slight.
“I know,” the voice responded, the woman’s breath tickling his ear and sending a tingling shiver down his neck and side. She pulled him tighter against her. “But you’ll be departing for Rhyssal House lands in another few days, and I will be forced to remain here, alone. I’ll take the risk, to be with you a few moments longer.”
“And I’ll be less alone in Rhyssal than you will be here?”
She snorted and pushed back slightly, Aeren taking the opportunity to turn around within the confines of her arms so he could face her.
Moiran, former Tamaea of the Alvritshai, wife of Fedorem and mother of the current Tamaell, Thaedoren, shook her head. “You will have Eraeth there to keep you company, as you always have.”
“Eraeth is my Protector, so he does not count. You have Thaedoren.”
Moiran’s gray eyes narrowed. “He is my son, and Tamaell besides. He has no time for his mother.”
“He listens to you more than you know. I’ve seen it in the Evant.”
“He listens only when it suits him, especially regarding the Evant. And if the lords find out about us-”
Aeren silenced her with a firm, lingering kiss.
As he drew back, a reserved reply of unconcern ready, someone said, “If they find out, they’ll be overjoyed, I’m certain. At least, most of them.”
Moiran’s arms slid away instantly and she stepped back from Aeren, both of them straightening, the formality that cloaked all Alvritshai-that formed the basis of their society-sliding back into place instinctively. Moiran clasped her hands and brought them to rest before her, even as her head rose to face the intruder, her eyes flashing with the authority of the Tamaea, an authority she ostensibly no longer wielded. Aeren simply let his arms fall to his sides, although he glowered into the weak shadows at theback of the balcony where he could barely make out the figure resting in one of the chairs tucked away beside the doorway.
“How long have you been there, Shaeveran?” he demanded.
Colin shifted forward, leaning into the light so that Moiran could see him. The brittle stiffness in her shoulders relaxed, although it did not completely vanish. The Alvritshai did not share their private lives with anyone. Not even old friends.
Colin nodded toward Moiran, then turned his attention to Aeren. “Since before you arrived. I know you enjoy the dawn.” His voice hardened. “We have much to discuss before the Evant meets.”
Moiran smiled, the expression tight with regret and understanding. Aeren had seen the smile often. She’d been Tamaea for far too long to protest when the Evant intruded on her personal life.
“I should return to my chambers,” she said formally, nodding toward Colin, then Aeren, refraining from any form of affection although Aeren could see the impulse in her eyes.
When she’d left, Colin caught Aeren’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s been forty years since Fedorem’s death,” Aeren said defensively.
“And Thaedoren? How is he taking it?”
Aeren hesitated. “He did not take it well at first, but it was impossible to keep it from him. The White Phalanx escort her everywhere after all, and they report to the Tamaell. Once he calmed down, an understanding was reached, more from Moiran’s influence on him than my own. We have his blessing, his support, as long as we keep it from the Evant until the time is right for an official announcement.”
“You don’t think those in the Evant already know?”
“The Alvritshai keep their private lives … private.” He shot a warning glance toward Colin, who shrugged.
“Your private life is not my concern, although this may help my cause more than you know. If you are already allied with Thaedoren, if it is on the verge of a blood-tie-”
The loud thud of bootfalls sounded from the inner room and three Phalanx guardsmen led by Eraeth burst through the doorway, their cattan blades brandished. They halted abruptly as they saw Aeren standing at the balcony’s edge.
“The Tamaea-rhen claimed-” Eraeth began, but spun, straightening into a fighting stance even as his blade settled dead center on Colin’s chest. The other guards reacted as quickly, Aeren noted with approval.
A deathly silence hung over the crisp dawn air, four swords hanging motionless.
Then Eraeth’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Colin smiled. “It’s been a long time, Eraeth.”
The tension held a moment longer, filled with emotions and things left unsaid. Aeren could sense the strange bond his Protector and Shaeveran shared in that tension, so rigid and carefully controlled, filled with sorrow and misplaced mistrust and an unspoken respect.
Eraeth finally lowered his sword with a grimace. With a curt command, the other three guardsmen lowered their weapons as well, then departed. Eraeth remained behind, after a short glance and confirming nod from Aeren, moving into a guardsman’s position near the door.
Aeren shifted away from the balcony’s edge toward Colin. “What brings you to Caercaern, in need of the Evant? You haven’t been here in nearly thirty years. Is it about the Wells? The Shadows and the Wraiths? Have you managed to stop them?”
Colin stood, leaning on his staff. He appeared older than when Aeren had seen him last, but Aeren knew he could change his age at will. He wondered why Colin had chosen age over youth in this instance, what advantage it gave him.
“We both know that, even with the help of the Faelehgre, our chances of stopping the Wraiths from awakening the Wells would be … difficult. I’ve discovered that perhaps it shouldn’t be done at all.”
“So the Wraiths and the Shadows will be allowed to run free, to feed off of our people at will?” Eraeth couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. Aeren tensed as well, thinking of all of the Alvritshai who had already died in their attempts to keep the Shadows from their lands.
Colin bowed his head slightly. “I have come up with another option. But it will require the help of the Order of Aielan.”
Aeren straightened. “Lotaern has used the Order to gain power within the Evant, more power than I am comfortable with at the moment. He has used the threat of the Shadows and the Wraiths, and the fears of the lords and the Alvritshai, to consolidate his control. The Order has essentially risen to the level of a House. I do not think that allowing him control over something more-”
“I think you’ll find that this may limit his control, rather than extend it. At least regarding the Shadows and the Wraiths. I cannot say how it will affect his political power within the Evant. That is … an Alvritshai concern.”
Aeren frowned. “What is this other option?”
Colin’s free hand moved to the satchel he carried at his side. “A way to counter the effects of the awakened Wells, to limit the range of the Shadows … and the Wraiths to an extent. A way to protect the Alvritshai from their threat.”
Aeren stared at the satchel. He found it hard to believe that something that could save the Alvritshai from the Shadows and the Wraiths could be contained in such a small case.
He caught Colin’s gaze. “How?”
Colin raised his head enough he could see through the heavy folds of his hood as he, Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest of the Rhyssal House Phalanx passed through the massive wooden doors of the inner chamber of the great Hall at the center of Caercaern’s widest marketplace. He could see little through the opening of the cowl, had entirely missed the thick colonnades of the Hall and the magnificent stone carvings on the outside walls depicting Alvritshai in their daily labors and religious observances. But the interior was as grand. The Tamaell’s platform stood on the far side of a wide area surrounded by circular arrays of desks and seats and tiered stairs leading down to a central oval. Alvritshai lords and their attendant guards, clerks, and aides filled the stairs, their conversations echoing loudly in the huge vaulted ceiling overhead. The desks were draped in thick folds of cloth of various colors, representing each of the Houses of the Evant, those colors mirrored in the banners arrayed against the rounded walls of the chamber and in the formal dress of everyone present.
Eraeth and Aeren led the Rhyssal House party down the stairs to the deep-blue-and-red-shrouded desk. Colin felt the eyes of the attendant lords register Aeren’s arrival … and then fall on the shrouded figure carrying a staff and satchel behind him. Beneath the folds of the cowl, he heard the sudden lull in conversation, saw the pinched frowns that flashed briefly across faces before gazes shot toward Aeren, toward the empty throne that graced the Tamaell’s platform, then to their fellow lords to gauge reactions. Conversations resumed as Aeren reached his own seat and settled in, motioning Colin to a place on his left, Eraeth taking up position on his right. A flurry of activity ensued, as pages were sent to relay messages throughout the room.
Colin glanced around, taking note of the lords he recognized and a few he didn’t. The fallout from Lord Khalaek’s betrayal and murder of Tamaell Fedorem had been swift, the declaration that House Duvoraen had fallen occurring on the battlefield at the Escarpment after Khalaek had been banished and handed over to King Stephan and subsequently executed. House Uslaen had risen in its place, led by Lord Saetor, who stood near his white-and-gold-shrouded desk, back rigid. He looked uncomfortable among his fellow lords, even after forty years. Younger, and raised and trained to be part of the Phalanx, his ascension into the Evant had been unexpected, an honor placed upon him for his part in the battle at the Escarpment and his handling of Lord Khalaek’s forces after the lord had been removed and his Phalanx placed under Saetor’s command. The transition hadn’t been entirely smooth-there were those loyal to Khalaek who had abandoned the House as Saetor seized control-but after Khalaek’s betrayal had been exposed, backed by both Thaedoren and Lotaern’s word, it had gone as smoothly as could be expected.
Saetor watched Colin intently, ignoring the flurry of messages that had accumulated on his desk. He was so focused that Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked away, even though he knew Saetor could not see beneath his cowl.
His gaze fell on the other unknown lord, Orraen Licaeta, the son of Vaersoom, who had ascended in his father’s place as the Lord of House Licaeta soon after the Escarpment, when Vaersoom had succumbed to the wounds received during the battle. Orraen was the firstborn and, unlike Aeren, had been trained to take his father’s place since the day he was born. Aeren’s elder brother had been groomed for the role Aeren now held. When he had been killed over the course of the war for the plains, Aeren had been forced to leave his studies as acolyte in the Order of Aielan and take control of his House.
Orraen reminded Colin of Khalaek. His posture was relaxed, his genial smile unforced as he moved among the gathering of the Evant, talking to lords and aides and, on occasion, their Phalanx guardsmen. Yet the hardness around his eyes never abated, and his actions-every gesture, every movement-were far too smooth, too slick and practiced. He appeared to have dismissed Colin, his back turned toward Aeren as he conversed with Lord Jydell, even laughing at something his fellow lord said. Jydell cast Aeren a contemplative look, and appeared at ease, but the way one hand twisted the sleeve of his shirt and his occasional glance toward Colin’s shrouded figure revealed his concern.
Behind Orraen and Jydell, a few levels up the stairs, stood Lotaern, Chosen of the Order of Aielan. As if sensing Colin’s gaze, even from beneath the hood, the Chosen nodded in acknowledgment, as if he knew who hid behind the cowl. And perhaps he did.
Before Colin had a chance to assess the rest of the lords, members of the White Phalanx filed into the room. Four appeared on the platform itself, arranging themselves around the main throne and the two smaller thrones set a pace back to either side. The rest filed in beneath the platform, carrying standards or spears, moving slowly, with formal, deliberate steps. The surrounding lords and their entourages began filtering toward their seats, conversations falling silent.
The White Phalanx halted, standing stock-still, waiting until the room had quieted before the two carrying the spears raised them and pounded their metal bases into the marble floor. The sound cracked through the chamber, and Colin started, even though he’d been expecting it. The procedure for the Tamaell’s arrival had changed subtly since Colin had last attended the Evant, but the feel of the chamber-the simmering tension of predator and prey-was the same.
“Tamaell Thaedoren Ormae Resue,” one of the standard-bearers announced.
Everyone in attendance stood as Thaedoren emerged onto the platform, followed by his mother, Moiran, and his brother, Daedelan. Colin’s eyebrows rose. Both Thaedoren and Daedelan were dressed in the full regalia of the White Phalanx, including bracers on their arms and armor beneath the silky red-and-white folds of their House shirts. Daedelan had darker hair than Thaedoren, like his mother’s, but even from this distance Colin could see they both had their father’s green eyes. Both were tall and solidly built, although Daedelan was obviously younger, even with his face set in a serious expression. Moiran’s gaze swept the room, lingering on no one, not even Aeren, but seeing all. She wore a dress that hinted at armor, the folds and cut more severe and serious than usual. No one spoke, but a rustle eased around the room as the rest noticed as well. Eraeth shot Aeren a questioning look, but Aeren merely shrugged.
Obviously, Thaedoren had prepared since they’d met with him that morning.
“Be seated,” Thaedoren said, but remained standing as the chamber filled with the sounds of rustling cloth. Moiran and Daedelan took the two thrones behind him.
When everyone had settled, Thaedoren bowed his head slightly. “We have reached the end of another session of the Evant. I know that you are all looking forward to returning to your House lands in the next few weeks to see to their preparation for winter, and you will be able to depart as planned. But there is one last issue-one of extreme importance-that must be discussed before we bring the Evant to a close.” Thaedoren turned toward Aeren and nodded respectfully. “Lord Aeren.” He settled into the seat of his throne as Aeren rose.
Aeren hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts, then moved out from behind the desk and claimed the oval floor beneath the platform. He caught each lord with a penetrating gaze before he spoke. No one sneered or scowled as they had during the first meeting of the Evant Colin had attended when Aeren had tried to speak.
Aeren’s House had risen since the death of Fedorem and the battle at the Escarpment. And once his relationship with Moiran was revealed and a blood-tie established with the Tamaell, with Thaedoren …
Colin stirred in his seat. Even he, an outsider, a human, realized the power over the Evant that Aeren would wield then.
“The sukrael and the Wraiths,” Aeren began. His voice was soft, but everyone in the chamber stirred. “We have all suffered from their attacks since before the Escarpment, since before Khalaek’s betrayal of our people to the Wraith called Walter. Those attacks continue to plague us, the sukrael randomly taking lives within each of our Houses, attacking villages and towns, caravans and traders, sometimes destroying every living thing within a wide radius, every man, woman, child, and animal, their lives drained away, their bodies left where they fell. They ravage our lands, spreading out from the Ostraell forests as their power grows, as the Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell that bind the Shadows. Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, has scoured the Scripts and used its knowledge of these creatures to train his warriors of the Flame to defend against them, but as we have all seen, those defenses are minimal.”
At this, Lotaern rose in indignation. “The Order of the Flame has done everything in its power to stop these creatures! If not for the Flame, their attacks on Lord Saetor’s lands would have been disastrous! They would have decimated the city of Touvaris at the edge of the Ostraell!”
Grumbles of agreement shot through the chamber, but Aeren overrode them all. “And what is the situation now?” he demanded. “The Order of the Flame has a permanent presence in Touvaris. They patrol its borders with Saetor’s Phalanx, using their powers and the Flames of Aielan to keep the sukrael at bay.”
“And the sukrael are at bay.”
“Barely. All that you have achieved is protection of one land at the sacrifice of another. The sukrael don’t care about land or buildings or crops. They care only for life. They shifted their attention elsewhere, so while Touvaris lies protected by the Flame, they attack House Redlien, or Licaeta, or roam out onto the dwarren plains attacking our trade routes. And as their power grows, as their Wraiths continue to awaken the sarenavriell and expand their territory, the Order of the Flame is spread thinner and thinner and becomes less and less effective. You have already split the force to cover Licaeta’s lands, those closest to the Ostraell. I know you have been discussing the use of the Flame in Lord Jydell’s lands. How many warriors do you have in the Order, Chosen? Are there enough to cover all of the Houses, all of the Alvritshai borders?”
Lotaern’s jaw worked for a long moment, his eyes blazing with anger, back stiff. “No,” he finally said, the word low and grudging. “More warriors of the Flame are being trained as we speak, but there are not enough to protect all of our lands, all of our people.”
Aeren nodded. “More warriors of the Flame should be trained, because the threat of the sukrael and the Wraiths is real. I meant no disrespect for the Order, and I-along with every lord present-am grateful for the protection that the Flame has provided from that threat so far. But we must be realistic. The protection the Flame offers will not be enough to cover us all. Not if the sukrael continue to grow in power and the lands they can hunt expand. We need something more. We need something stronger.”
“What?” Lord Saetor demanded, standing abruptly, one hand pressed forward onto his desk. “We have done everything within our power. What more do you propose we do?”
Colin rose, even as Aeren turned toward him. Every gaze settled on him as he moved forward, Aeren falling back as he took the center. He moved slowly, the butt of his staff thumping softly onto the marble floor. Tension escalated as he positioned himself before the Tamaell’s platform. A murmur ran through the room, and from the corner of his eye he saw Saetor shove back from his desk. He couldn’t see Lotaern, but he knew the Chosen well enough he could imagine the frown that darkened his face. He had wanted to include Lotaern in the meeting with the Tamaell, to plan how they would present the proposal, but Aeren-and later, Thaedoren-had felt it better that they catch him unaware. They didn’t want to give him the opportunity to turn this proposal to the Order’s advantage. And after what he’d seen and heard since his return, he found he agreed with their fears. The Order had gained in power, had grown, had created its own Phalanx with the Flame. He could feel the weight of its presence even here, not just in Lotaern’s inclusion in the Evant, but in how the Flame had been used to infiltrate the Phalanx of at least two of the Houses. Those members of the Flame would have influence on the caitans of the Phalanx they were there to help, and those caitans could influence their lords.
But all of that political maneuvering was Aeren’s concern, not Colin’s. He only wanted to stop the Shadows and their attacks, and keep the Wraiths from destroying what the Alvritshai, dwarren, and human races had managed to build over the last hundred years here on the plains of Wrath Suvane.
Whether the Alvritshai agreed to it or not.
Raising both arms, he pulled back his hood as he said, “I have a solution.”
A gasp of recognition echoed through the chamber, immediately followed by outcries of shock, of awe or derision, even a few curses. Colin didn’t flinch, kept his gaze locked on the Tamaell’s expressionless face, on his dark green eyes. Thaedoren let the Evant’s outcry rise and fall, but before he could speak, Lord Peloroun-Colin would recognize the lord’s sneering voice anywhere-snapped, “You have a solution? What of your promise to stop the Wraiths from awakening new Wells? What of your assurances that you could halt the spread of the territory the sukrael could control? Why should we listen to you when none of your promises before this have been fulfilled?”
A few other lords barked agreement, but everyone quieted when Thaedoren stood, anger flaring across his face. “We will listen because of the debt that we owe Shaeveran after his actions at the Escarpment. Without him, without his intervention, the armies of the Provinces would have slaughtered us all.” His gaze latched onto Peloroun’s. “You know this, Peloroun. You were there. You fought King Stephan’s men, know that they were out for blood, that nothing short of an order from their king could have stopped them. And Shaeveran convinced their king to give that order.”
Peloroun leaned back, but the heat in his eyes didn’t abate. “Yes, I was there. I remember.”
Thaedoren’s eyes narrowed at the disrespect that still tinged Peloroun’s voice. “Then let him speak.”
Colin waited until Thaedoren glanced toward him and nodded, then turned toward Peloroun directly. “I had intended to stop the Wraiths from awakening the Wells, but I’ve discovered that would not be in the best interests of either the Alvritshai or the dwarren.”
A low murmur rose. Peloroun scowled.
A low throb of anger pulsed through Colin, warmed his blood. “Since the Escarpment, I have battled the Shadows and the Wraiths. I have traveled these lands in search of them, in search of the Wells that they seek to awaken, using the information gleaned from your own Scripts, given to me by your Chosen. I’ve fought to the heart of forests, to the depths of mountains, to swamps and ancient ruins, all in an attempt to stop the Wraiths from awakening any more of the sarenavriell. And I have the scars to prove it!” He shucked back the sleeves of his robes and exposed his arms, exposed the black mottling that marred his skin, like ink, trapped beneath the surface, pooling and shifting and swirling back and forth. The lords gasped, drew back at the sight, most whispering to each other as he turned so that all could see, even as his own stomach roiled in revulsion. He did not rip open the robes to expose his body, where the hideous black marks scored his chest, shoulders, and back. All of the damage done during his attempts to stop Walter and the other Wraiths at the few Wells he and Lotaern had managed to discover. Every moment spent near the Lifeblood contained within those Wells made the stains upon his skin grow, the Wells themselves eating away at his soul, altering him inexorably.
“This is what I have suffered for your protection!” he roared, holding up his arms. “This is what I’ve done to help you!”
“And yet you have achieved nothing,” Peloroun spat.
Colin dropped his arms, strode purposely toward Peloroun’s seat, gathering power around him as he moved. He felt a twinge of satisfaction when Peloroun flinched as he came to a halt two paces away, staff held to one side.
“I’ve discovered that the Wells hold the key to the entire balance of power on the plains. I’ve discovered that all of the freakish storms that rage across the grasses, all of the occurrences of Drifters, of what you call the occumaen, are the result of the imbalance of the Wells themselves. The reason that I have failed to halt Walter and his fellow Wraiths from awakening them is because if I do, then the storms and the occumaen will continue to worsen. We cannot halt the awakenings. The imbalance of doing so may tear the plains apart.”
“But the sukrael,” Lord Daesor protested. Colin turned toward him, recognized the son who had taken over Barak’s position after he’d been killed on the battlefield at the Escarpment. “If we allow the Wraiths to awaken the Wells, then the Shadows will have free reign over all of Wrath Suvane.”
“Not,” Colin said, “if we have another way to protect ourselves from them.”
He reached into the depths of his satchel and drew forth one of the seeds wrapped in muslin. Pulling the cloth free, he held up what looked like a scepter-a length of wood the size of his forearm, with a gnarled knot at one end larger than his fist. The shaft was sheathed in pale white bark, like that of a birch or beech tree, smooth beneath his grip but marred in places with black cuts, as if branches had once sprouted from the shaft but had been sheared off. Power pulsed through the wood into his palm as the muslin fell free, awakening the power of the Lifeblood within him, stoking the flames of the White Fire and swelling the waters of the Confluence in which he had immersed himself. It surged through his arm, tingling across his skin, and for a long moment he thought it would consume him beneath its weight, that it would overwhelm him here, within the Hall of the Evant, which would be disastrous. But he’d been carrying the seeds for far too long. One for each of the three races-Alvritshai, dwarren, and human. One each for them to guard and protect. And a fourth protected by him alone, its location secret from everyone.
He turned toward Lotaern, whose entire body stood rigid with tension. Colin wondered if he could sense the immense power straining to break free from the seed, wondered if he could see the power that poured off of Colin’s skin in waves now that he’d touched the seed directly. Like the Wells, the seed had been awakened by that touch. He had little time left now.
“What is it?” Lotaern asked, and everyone shifted restlessly at the brittle fear in his voice.
“It is a gift,” Colin said, and even he heard the power throbbing in his voice, threatening to break free. “A gift I give to the Alvritshai people to protect them from the sukrael-the Shadows-and from the Wraiths as well. No longer will the Flame be forced to provide the sole protection from their attacks. When this power is released, it will cast a mantle over Alvritshai lands. It will cloak the Alvritshai people with a barrier that the Shadows and Wraiths cannot pass, a barrier that the Alvritshai people will not be able to see. But this protection comes at a price. It has boundaries. Within its protection, you are safe; venture outside and you will be within the Shadows’ grasp. And it will require care and protection of its own. Neglect it, and it will fail.”
“And what do you ask in return for this protection?” Peloroun asked.
Colin turned toward the Tamaell, ignoring the lord. Peloroun did not wield the greatest power here; the Tamaell did. “Nothing. Nothing, except that you continue to honor the Accord established at the Escarpment. Will you accept this gift? Will you accept its protection?”
His voice cracked and broke with the strain of containing the seed. It wanted release, its need surging in Colin’s hand. He ground his teeth together, willed Thaedoren to accept as the Tamaell, as they had planned that morning.
“This is something that should be discussed by the Evant!” Lotaern shouted. “At length and in depth. What Shaeveran wields, what he holds in his hand-” he shook his head. “I can feel its power. We must be careful. It is dangerous, more dangerous than anything I’ve witnessed before.”
“I agree with the Chosen,” Peloroun cut in. “We do not know what kind of power he holds. We should allow the Order of Aielan to investigate it, to confirm its intent.”
“Your lands aren’t the ones being attacked,” Lord Saetor replied, an edge to his voice. “If it were your people dying beneath the sukrael’s darkness-”
Lords rose from their seat, some in protest, others arguing to accept the gift, the tumult rising. Colin felt his arm beginning to tremble and lowered his hand, cradling the seed close to him. Anger lashed through him, and disgust. He should never have brought the subject before the Evant, should have known that the decision would not be reached easily, even with the Tamaell’s support. He and Aeren had hoped that the Evant would seize the chance for protection without question, but there were still too many within the council who did not trust Aeren or Colin, even after the events at the Escarpment. They had assumed Lotaern would support them, even though it ate away at his newly won power with the Evant. They had assumed that he would see the benefits of freeing his warriors of the Flame for other purposes, and that it would more than likely fall to the Order to care for the seed.
“Fools,” Colin muttered under his breath, glaring around at the cacophony of noise, the power of the seed pulsing with his own blood. “All fools.”
The power would not wait for the Evant to come to a decision. It had already been awakened.
He turned toward the platform, caught the eyes of the former Tamaea. She reached out and touched Thaedoren’s arm, the Tamaell’s gaze shifting from the bickering lords to Colin.
His lips pressed into a thin line as they regarded each other-
Then he nodded.
Colin moved, not waiting for the Evant to be called to order. Permission had been granted; the wishes of the Lotaern and the lords no longer mattered. He headed for the stairs, saw a blur of blue-and-red motion out of the corner of his eye, Eraeth and four other Rhyssal Phalanx surrounding him a moment later. But they didn’t impede him. Two darted forward and cleared a path up the stairs to the hall’s inner doors, Eraeth motioning the waiting Phalanx there to open the chamber. They scrambled to draw the doors back, even as Colin heard Lotaern shout out a warning from behind them.
Colin and his escort spilled out through the main stone doors of the Hall, past the thick colonnades, and into the blinding sunlight of the marketplace. The clamor of the Evant became the roar of thousands of Alvritshai vying for attention or haggling for a bargain, the plaza packed with hawkers, carts, tents, and animals. Alvritshai in the conical hats of commoners wove through the makeshift paths toting baskets and bundles, stopping to inspect wares or chat with friends and family. Children dashed between bodies, and messengers and pages darted through every opening as they rushed to deliver their notes.
Colin halted on the edge of the morass of people, Eraeth coming up beside him.
“Where?” the Protector asked bluntly.
Colin drew in a deep breath, felt the power of the seed building, drawing upon the life-force of the crowd around it. He wouldn’t be able to control it much longer. But the seed couldn’t be placed just anywhere. It had to be within the walls of Caercaern so that Thaedoren and the White Phalanx-and Lotaern and his Flame-could protect it.
But it needed room. Lots of room.
“The center of the plaza,” he rasped. Eraeth shot him a questioning look, but he shook his head. “There’s no other choice. We don’t have much time.”
Eraeth barked orders, the Rhyssal Phalanx closing in tighter around him, and then they plowed into the crowd.
Eraeth drove straight toward the center of the plaza, ignoring the cries of protest as the Phalanx shoved people out of their way. At the heart of the group, Colin struggled with the seed, its pulse now locked into his heartbeat, threading through his body and drawing on his own power. He could taste its urgency, frigid and silvery, like snow, the sensation coursing through his skin, making him shudder with cold. Eraeth glanced back, caught the look on his face, then barked new orders. The Phalanx broke through the center of a tent, cloth ripping as tables were knocked aside and pottery crashed to the ground. They tipped over a cart laden with melons, nearly trampled a gaggle of old women, who shrieked and scattered like hens, and then Colin could hold the power within no longer.
He shouted a warning toward Eraeth, even as the Phalanx drew back from him. He could feel the power slipping outward from his grasp, glanced up to see shock and horror dawning on the faces around him. The crowd, Eraeth and the Phalanx included, pulled farther back as tendrils of light began flickering upward from the stone around him. As the light intensified, Colin scanned the area, saw that they’d nearly made it to the fountain, noted the discarded blankets and abandoned tables of merchants, then noticed that the light curling upward around him was centered on one spot, one location.
He stepped forward, thrust a tarp from a collapsed tent aside with his staff, bared the stone of the plaza beneath in a wide circle, the seed clutched to his chest with one arm as he worked. Then he fell to his knees, setting his staff to one side.
The light emerging from the ground came in sheets, rising like steam or mist. On the far side of the veil, Eraeth and the rest of the Phalanx were herding the Alvritshai in the plaza back, farther away from Colin. The Protector met Colin’s gaze for a brief moment, then broke the contact as more Phalanx arrived in the varied colors of the other Houses. Colin caught sight of Aeren, Peloroun, Lotaern, the latter two looking furious, and behind them all, Thaedoren. The Tamaell broke through the widening circle of Phalanx, stepping close to the swirling light.
Then the urgency of the seed pulsed deep into Colin’s chest. He gasped at the intensity, felt his body shudder in response.
Lifting the seed toward the sky with both hands, he released the power of the Lifeblood, the Confluence, and the White Fire inside him. It surged through his arms, into the seed, and the last restraints on the power locked inside it collapsed.
With a harsh cry, he drove the shaft of the seed into the stone before him, felt it pierce deep. Beneath his hand, the knot atop the staff writhed. The pale white bark split beneath his palm with a crack of splintering wood. He hissed and lurched backward, stumbled on the detritus left behind by the market vendors, but caught himself. Grabbing his staff, he continued backing up. White light licked up around him, flowed through him, touching and tasting, rising higher as the stone beneath his feet trembled. It recognized its creator.
The crowd gasped when the seed quickened and the sapling that sprouted from it shot skyward, higher than the tendrils of light, piercing upward, growing in the space of heartbeats, seeking sunlight. The sapling thickened, the bole of an immense tree emerging, its bark dark, nearly black, limbs thrusting outward from the trunk like spears, splitting, branching. The groan of stressed wood filled the plaza, punctuated by sharp cracks and sizzling, hissing pops. And still the immense tree strained upward. Roots pierced the stone at the trunk’s base and dove back underground, grinding the stone to dust as the trunk thickened and spread. Buds appeared on the thousands of branches, burst open between one breath and the next, thick silvery leaves unfurling. Colin stepped back once, twice, tilted his head so that he could see the branches reaching outward, obscuring the sky, stretching out over the crowd below.
That crowd stood stunned, the Phalanx no longer trying to usher the gathered Alvritshai backward. Some had bolted and were thrashing their way through those too awed to move. Even the lords of the Evant and the Tamaell had stilled, gazing up in wonder at a tree nearly five times as large as any tree they had ever seen before. It would take twenty men, hands linked, to encircle the trunk alone.
Colin bowed his head. Weariness seeped through him, enveloped him like a warm blanket, sapped his strength. He turned, moved through the fading white light, the ground reabsorbing it. Behind him, the groans and shudders of the tree’s birth eased, replaced by the calming sigh of wind through thousands upon thousands of leaves. Silver leaves, even though the bark of the tree was the color of deep, earthy loam.
He halted before the Tamaell, Thaedoren ripping his gaze from the sight to look down upon him.
“The Alvritshai are now protected from the Wraiths and the Shadows,” Colin said, and his voice shook with exhaustion. “I give you the Winter Tree.”