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 lords will follow their lead.”
“Orraen and Peloroun don’t always side with Lotaern.”
“But if they do when something of significance comes to the floor? Do you realize that he has yet to remove any of his Flame from the temples in any of the House lands? He has ignored the edict-from the Evant and from you.”
Thaedoren leaned forward onto the table, head bowed. His chest still ached over Reanne, but he needed to focus on the Evant, on salvaging the situation if at all possible. “We need to curb them in the Evant. And we need to call on our own allies to back us when necessary. Who can we count on? And how are we going to find a connection between Peloroun, Orraen, and Lotaern?”
Aeren shifted forward. “Lord Saetor has shown some promise recently.…”
Thaedoren nodded as he pushed back from the table and listened. He knew he could count on Aeren-and Fedaureon and his mother, of course-but his thoughts turned toward his brother, Daedelan, the White Fox, who’d arrived in the city late last night. He would have to be apprised of the situation.
He did not think Daedelan would like the fall of recent events in Caercaern. Not at all.
“Are they moving out yet?”
Eraeth shook his head from his perch on top of a sandy red outcropping of rock overlooking the chasm beyond. “No. It doesn’t look like they’ll be moving any time soon.”
Colin glanced toward Siobhaen, who paced in the shadow cast by the cliffs that surrounded them. She scowled toward the distance, one hand on her cattan, the other tossing a stone in a nervous gesture.
When she saw Colin watching her, she asked hopefully, “Can we kill them?”
They’d entered the Thalloran Wastelands days before, the land breaking up, earth cracked so much they’d been forced to descend into the chasms between the tan-and-red rocks in order to continue, walking in shadows for most of the day, crumbling cliff faces to either side. It became immediately apparent that the horses were slowing them down, and that finding food and water for them would be problematic. After much discussion, it had been decided to leave the horses behind. They’d set them free on the outskirts of dwarren lands in the hopes that the dwarren scouts would reclaim them. Colin suspected the Wraith army would find them first.
They’d entered the chasms of the wasteland shortly after that. Colin had found his shoulders itching at the sense of confinement, tension creeping into his muscles at the claustrophobia. He couldn’t help feeling that the rock on either side would give way and bury them all. Even though the walls concealed them well from the strange birdlike creatures, he found himself seeking the more open chasms and the wider blue sky overhead.
But while they were concealed from the creatures Eraeth had begun calling taeredacs, they were threatened by the small groups of the Haessari that were scattered throughout the labyrinthine crevices. Progress had slowed as they found themselves cutting back when a chosen path ended in two cliff faces merging or narrowing too much for them to pass. It had slowed even further after they’d encountered the first group of Snake People. That fight had been short, and Colin believed they’d only survived because both groups had been caught off guard. If the Haessari scouts had seen them coming, they could have ambushed them, killing them all with the small poison-tipped darts they all seemed to carry, or with their strange S-shaped swords.
At least, killing Eraeth and Siobhaen. Colin would have survived, although he wasn’t certain what the poison would have done to him.
They’d been more wary after that, Colin scouting ahead with time slowed to determine the best path and making certain there were no surprises from the Haessari. After the first two days, he’d begun to feel the edge of exhaustion from halting time often, and in such short bursts. It was easier to use it in longer intervals, but the Snake People changed position too often for him to scout too far ahead.
Still, they’d eluded at least ten of the groups within the crevasses.
Until now.
He met Siobhaen’s gaze. “No. I don’t want the Wraiths to know that we’re coming. If we kill too many of the Haessari scouts, they’ll know, and they’ll be ready.”
Siobhaen frowned, then turned back to pacing with a low growl. “We’ve been waiting for nearly an hour,” she muttered under her breath.
From his lookout, Eraeth asked, “Are you certain there’s no other way around them? That we have to go through the chasm ahead?”
Colin sighed, felt the exhaustion on his shoulders, dragging him down. “I’ve been through every fissure, crevice, turn, and niche for an hour’s walk in every direction-with time slowed-and none of them seem to bypass the open area ahead.”
Eraeth grunted, then began crawling down from his perch. He dislodged some of the loose sand and rock, stones rattling against each other, and stilled, double-checking on the Haessari beyond, then continued more carefully.
“We may have to kill them then,” Eraeth said, dusting himself off. “They’re settling in. I think they’re preparing to start a fire. There’s a circle of stones and what looks like a fire pit. And with nightfall only a few hours away-”
“-they’ll need the heat.”
From his seat at the relatively flat base of the crevasse, Colin reached down and dug his fingers into the soil at his side and closed his eyes, sinking into the earth far enough that he could feel the pulse of the Lifeblood deep within. Since they’d reached the edge of dwarren lands, he’d been using the flows of the Lifeblood to guide them, its currents drawing them farther east and slightly north. Within the last day or so, he’d begun to sense the Source, its pull immense. It pulsed through the ground and he shuddered and tasted the leaf, loam, and snow of the Lifeblood in the back of his throat. With effort, he withdrew, lifting his hand from the earth at his feet. It trembled.
“We’re close,” he said, and even his voice was shaky, sounding like gravel. He coughed and drew his hand across his mouth. “I think the Source lies just beyond, within a day’s walk, perhaps less.”
Eraeth’s face pinched with concern, but he said nothing. “This may be a regular outpost, manned at all times. If there is no other path through for some distance, it would make sense to keep a patrol here. They might never leave.”
“Then we should kill them,” Siobhaen said, “instead of wasting time sitting here talking about it. What if they send out scouts?”
Eraeth nodded grudgingly. “I think Siobhaen is right. We can’t risk waiting for them to leave on their own.”
“Good,” Siobhaen muttered, drawing her sword soundlessly, a vicious smile twisting her lips. “I don’t like these Snake People. They’re unnatural.”
Colin recalled how singularly brutal she’d been taking some of them in that first surprise encounter and grimaced. “I would still like to keep our presence a secret.”
“Not possible any longer.”
He stood and met their gazes. “There is a way. I’ll slow time for both of you as well as me. We can slip past them.” At their skeptical looks, he added, “I’ve done it before, with the Tamaea on the battlefields at the Escarpment.”
“You were exhausted afterward,” Eraeth said. “This would be two people-”
“I’m stronger and more practiced now.”
Eraeth glowered. “-and do you really want to be weakened while facing off with the Wraiths?”
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
Eraeth and Siobhaen remained quiet for a long moment, long enough Colin held out his hands for them to take. Neither one of them moved.
“Do you really think the Wraiths don’t know of your presence?” Eraeth asked, his voice level. “You sensed the Wraith army, were concerned they would sense you when you went down to scout it out. What makes you think they don’t already know that you’re coming?”
“I sensed the army because it was so large. It would be nearly impossible to miss. There are only three of us.”
“But they still may have sensed you.”
“I can’t sense the Wraiths right now. I assume they can’t sense me.”
“But you don’t know that for certain.”
Colin glared in irritation, then dropped his hands. “No. I can’t guarantee that.”
“Then the risk is too high. I won’t allow you to exhaust yourself for something this trivial. We’ll take out the patrol. If that forewarns the Wraiths, then so be it.”
He turned away and motioned toward Siobhaen. Colin thought about defying him, grasping both of their arms and slowing time regardless. But he wouldn’t be able to get them to move and couldn’t possibly drag them both beyond the patrol. So when Eraeth turned, he let his anger and frustration tinge his voice as he said, “I’ll take them out.”
“No. You’re already weak from the scouting. Siobhaen and I can handle it.”
He shot a look toward Siobhaen for confirmation and she nodded.
“When we reach the Source, I’ll need you to do what I ask without question,” Colin said.
Eraeth ignored him, speaking to Siobhaen. “There are six of them, three each.”
“Two each,” Colin said, reaching for his staff. “I can fight without the use of the Lifeblood.”
“Then two each. Siobhaen, you take the left, I’ll take the right. The cleft opens up into an oval-shaped gap, but they’re stationed on the far side, near the mouth of the crevice. They’ve set their packs and supplies to one side. Leave your packs here. We’ll come back and get them when we’re done.”
Colin gripped the handle of his staff, massaging the wood. “Don’t risk yourselves if they try to use their darts. I don’t know what the poison will do to me, but I doubt it will kill me.”
“I don’t plan on giving them time to do anything but draw their swords,” Siobhaen said. She turned to Eraeth. “Ready?”
He grinned.
Then they were running, rounding the rock outcropping Eraeth had used to spy on the group and sprinting toward the Haessari. The dry heat of the wastelands burned in Colin’s throat as he tried to control his breathing. None of them made a sound, Siobhaen and Eraeth pulling out slightly ahead of him, even as he pushed and allowed himself to grow younger, faster, more lithe and nimble. He fixed his attention on the six figures ahead, the Snake People sitting around a fire pit made of stone, slabs of rock laid out on all sides for them to sun on. One of them was crouched down, setting wood into the pit, although it hadn’t been lit yet. One other stood off to one side, holding what looked like a brace of rabbits. Their conversation was sibilant, full of elongated vowel sounds, although Colin found it hard to hear much over the rush of blood in his ears and the thud of his own feet juddering through his body.
The one making the fire saw them first, when they were twenty paces away. A sharp warning hiss escaped him.
The others reacted instantly. Their movements were fast and fluid, but Colin had been expecting it after that first startling confrontation. He closed the distance before the one who’d hissed had completely drawn his sword, his staff cracking into the Snake’s head with enough force to jar Colin’s arm and set it tingling. Blood flew, but the Haessari crumpled to the ground and Colin leaped over him, putting himself in the middle of the group. He heard the clash of weapons, punctuated by short hisses and grunts, but he didn’t spare a moment to look at either Eraeth or Siobhaen. With a sharp thrust, he punched his staff into the stomach of the nearest Snake, turned as the creature folded, and tried to swing toward the one on his right. But the first had grabbed hold of the wooden shaft. He ducked as the second swung his sword, bringing his staff up to block it, twisting even as he sent a surge of power down the staff into the first’s hands. The Snake gasped and let go, even as the second growled and drew back for another strike. Colin snapped the staff upward and hit the first under the snout, the Snake reeling backward, then spun and caught the second’s next cut in the staff’s center.
The Haessari glared at him, his strange eyes narrowing. His forked tongue flicked out to taste the air, his reptilian skin shiny beneath the sunlight, the black-and-tan patterns strangely enthralling.
With a suddenness that startled Colin, the folds of skin along both sides of the Haessari’s neck flared open, the undersides a pale yellow in color. The Snake’s jaws snapped wide as his head snaked forward to strike, two flesh-colored fangs protruding, glistening with poison.
Colin reacted instinctively, jamming his staff up into the gaping mouth even as the strength of the strike shoved him backward. He tripped on one of the stones laid out before the fire pit and fell, the Snake landing heavily on top of him. His breath rushed from his lungs and he struggled to draw another as the Snake tried to rear back, the staff caught behind his retractable fangs. Scaly hands grabbed the shaft of the staff and Colin realized the Haessari must have lost his sword when they fell. As the Snake tried to roll them, his weight lifting off Colin’s chest, Colin tucked his leg up into the space between them and shoved hard, letting his staff go.
The Snake fell away, still grappling with the staff, and Colin reached for the knife sheathed at his side. He rolled into a crouch at the Haessari’s side and shoved the dagger up under the snout, inside the flared hood. The Snake’s struggling ceased.
Spinning, Colin caught sight of the last Haessari as the Snake fell beneath Siobhaen’s blade from behind, the Snake too focused on defending himself from Eraeth. None of the other Haessari had flared their hoods, their bodies lying scattered around the fire pit. Breath heaving, Colin stood as both Eraeth and Siobhaen wheeled to face the next threat, only relaxing as they took stock of the situation. Neither one was breathing as hard as he was.
“Check and make certain they’re dead,” Colin said.
“I’ll do it.”
Siobhaen began moving from body to body. Eraeth cleaned his sword on one of the bodies before sheathing it. Colin turned to retrieve his staff. A few new nicks marred the surface of the wood. He wiped the Haessari’s saliva off of it with a piece of cloth ripped from the body, then began searching the dead.
Twenty minutes later, he rose, a vial of what appeared to be the Snake’s poison in one hand, but nothing else of interest. Siobhaen stood over the brace of rabbits and made a disgusted noise.
“What is it?” Eraeth asked.
“They’re not rabbits. They’re rats. The Snake People eat rats. Big rats. I hate them even more now.”
Eraeth shook his head and turned to Colin. “Anything of interest?”
“No.”
“They appear to be just another patrol, although a more permanent one. The fire pit isn’t new, and there’s plenty of wood stored in a niche in the cliff face over there.”
Colin grimaced. “Then we better get moving. There may be another patrol due here shortly.”
They left the bodies, retrieved their satchels, and entered the mouth of the eastern crevice, slipping into the cooler shadows between the cliffs. Siobhaen scouted ahead, motioning them forward at intervals, but there were no branching chasms, and few alcoves or niches where someone could hide.
Then, abruptly, they could see sunlight ahead and the end of the chasm. Siobhaen approached cautiously, crouching down as she neared the edge. After a long moment, she stood and motioned them forward.
When he saw what lay beyond, Colin found he couldn’t breathe.
Eraeth grew still and muttered, “Aielan’s Light.”
It was the remains of a city, only unlike any city Colin had ever seen and on a scale larger than any city within Alvritshai, human, or dwarren lands today, even the ancient ruins he’d seen in the northern wastes. The crumbled buildings stretched from the base of the small ledge the three stood upon as far as they could see in all directions, the red cliff face they stood against curving away to the north and south. The closest buildings had decayed the most and were mere piles of broken rock with only the barest impressions of edges were walls had once stood. But as Colin’s gaze traveled farther east, taking in the intricate and methodical system of roads, he noticed that more and more of the buildings had survived intact. The buildings increased in size as well, the ruins rising in height even as the land began to undulate with low hills. Farther distant, muted and washed out by a thin haze, he could see other buildings more or less intact, or with upper stories collapsed inward.
“Look,” Siobhaen said, pointing with one hand. “There used to be rivers here.”
Colin followed her arm to where the land sloped gradually down to a dried-out river basin cutting between the buildings. A second river joined it, just barely visible on the horizon. The buildings near the junction were the tallest, although it was obvious they had been taller once before. Towers-like those in Terra’nor and the Ostraell, built by the Faelehgre ages past-had once soared into the heavens. Most had been snapped off, their true heights lost in whatever cataclysm had destroyed the city ages past. The heat haze made them surreal, almost illusory.
“The Source is here,” Colin said. He didn’t need to sink into the earth to know. Whoever had built the city had created the Source. Or at least found the reservoir of Lifeblood and used it somehow. “They would have built it near their center of power, near the center of the city.”
Both of the Alvritshai turned toward the shattered towers.
“It looks to be a day distant, at least,” Eraeth said.
“And we’ll likely have to deal with the Snake People between here and there,” Siobhaen added. Her hand clenched on her cattan.
Colin glanced up toward the sky. The sun was behind the cliffs to their backs, keeping them in shadow. But there wasn’t much daylight left.
Without a word, he turned to where the ledge continued to their right, a path leading down the side of the cliff to the buildings below.
Horns blew, the clamor rising over the jarring clash of weapons and the screams of men dying. Gregson’s hand was clenched on the pommel of his sword, his gut shrieking for him to draw the weapon and charge out toward the battle lines less than a hundred feet distant. The backs of the Legion defenses surged, men trying to shove forward toward the main line lost among the mass of bodies. Wounded were being dragged from the press, covered in blood, others missing arms or legs, some obviously on the verge of death, most bellowing in agony or sobbing, hands clutched to a side or head or an arm. A few were completely limp, feet gouging trails in the already trampled and muddy ground.
Not all of the men were wearing the armor of the Legion. Some were civilians like those Gregson had guarded on the flight south.
He glanced back at the bedraggled group that followed him, perhaps only thirty left, with another twenty-five or so Legion. The group had scattered at the end of the Northward Ridge, over half retreating back the way they’d come. He didn’t know how they had fared. For those that had headed toward the Legion’s lines, the sprint to the cover of the hills had been costly, the Alvritshai decimating the group. It would have been worse if the Legion archers hadn’t been there to attack the Horde’s supply wagons and draw them away from those who hadn’t reached the tree line.
He turned back to the group that led them behind the army’s line-the commander of the unit that had hit the supply wagons and two of his lieutenant commanders-the rest of their unit behind the refugees, herding them along. Gregson and Terson had gathered those closest and headed south, only to have one of the unit’s archers catch up to them within an hour and order them southwest, toward the main battle. They’d followed the guide until joining up with his unit. The few remaining refugees had been relieved to be under the protection of the two hundred men, even though they were being escorted to where the fighting raged.
Gregson had been relieved as well, but even that couldn’t cut through the reality of what he’d seen on the Northward Ridge, before the attack of that flying creature. The Legion was outnumbered and outclassed by the ferocity of the creatures that fought alongside the Alvritshai. If it had been only the Alvritshai, they might have had a chance, but he couldn’t see how they could hold out against the catlike creatures, the fliers, and the brute strength of the rock-skinned giants.
But that wasn’t his concern. It was GreatLord Kobel’s.
Unconsciously, he looked toward the south, toward Temeritt, seeking a glance of the Autumn Tree for solace, although he wasn’t certain how much he could rely on the Tree any longer. The legends and hearthfire tales said that the Autumn Tree would protect them from the darkness, from the creatures of the shadows and the wraiths of the night. If the catlike creatures with the luminous eyes and the giants weren’t creatures of the night, he’d hate to imagine what would be worse.
He couldn’t see the Autumn Tree, though. They were still too distant.
The commander of the archers suddenly halted and turned, focusing on Gregson. “Lieutenant, I want you to leave your men here with the reserve forces for now, until we know what GreatLord Kobel wishes to do with them. I want you and your second to accompany me.”
Gregson nearly commented that these weren’t really his men, but the sharp crack of command in the man’s voice made him choke on the words and straighten, as if he were once again at the academy in Temeritt, in training for the Legion. The commander reminded him of many of his teachers from those days-stocky, broad of shoulder, a more rounded face than typical, offset by dark hair heavy with gray and a sharp gaze. He estimated the man at nearly fifty, with the scars of life to prove he’d lived hard.
“Yes, sir.” He closed his hand into a fist across his chest in formal salute, then snapped a glance toward Terson. He was suddenly aware of how dirty and shabby his dress and armor were from the weeks of hard travel.
As the commander turned away, giving out more orders to his own unit, Gregson turned to Curtis and Ricks, noting that Jayson stood behind them, listening intently. “Keep the men together. And tell Ara to make certain the civilians stay in a group as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregson noted with a sense of pride that the regular Legion had already assumed the military precision drilled into them at the academy.
“This way,” the commander ordered, and then headed off toward the east again, only one of the lieutenant commanders continuing on with them.
As they slogged through the muddy field, the intensity of the battle to the left escalated. Gregson saw one of the giants plowing into the Legionnaires, flinging men left and right before grabbing one and pulling him limb from limb. Gregson’s stomach heaved, even as someone cried, “Release!” and a garrison unleashed a torrent of arrows at the creature. It roared, rearing back with an arm in one hand, as yet more arrows found its eyes and mouth. Scraping at the shafts that protruded from its skin, the giant stumbled backward, listed, and fell. The Legion swarmed over the spot where it had disappeared with yells of triumph.
“They’re beasts!” the commander shouted over the tumult. “But they fall eventually!”
They halted as a group of reserve charged toward the front, then cut in behind them. Gregson suddenly realized they were headed toward a tent set up far behind the line, the burnt orange banner with the black oak in silhouette for the Temeritt Province flapping in the winds above it.
Terson shot him a wide-eyed glance. It appeared they were going to meet with GreatLord Kobel himself.
The commander ducked down through the tent flap, four Legionnaires to either side letting them pass. When Gregson straightened inside, he found a group of ten men surrounding a wide table, leaning on it as they peered down at the jagged lines and scratchings of a map. Four of the men were Lords of the Province, the rest commanders of the Legion. The commander who’d led them there motioned them toward one side of the tent, then positioned himself at GreatLord Kobel’s back, off to one side.
Kobel himself was surprisingly young, not yet forty, with brown hair silvered near the temples, brown eyes, and scars down the left side of his cheek near the mouth. The scars made him look vicious, although at the moment his face was lined with strain and tension and determination.
The GreatLord caught sight of the commander of the archers out of the corner of his eye and straightened. “Commander, report.”
“GreatLord, the fifty-seventh archery unit I command attacked the supply train as ordered. We caught them by surprise and inflicted heavy casualties while receiving few ourselves, although this may have been due to the fact that the reserve set to guard the Horde’s supplies was distracted by a group of refugees led by Lieutenant Gregson trying to reach our own lines.”
Kobel’s eyebrow rose. “The Horde?”
The commander swallowed once. “That is what the refugees in the group call the Alvritshai force.”
One of the lords, a robust man whose girth stretched the seams of his clothing and whose armor must have felt tight, snorted. “It’s fitting. I daresay the entire Legion will be calling them the Horde by tomorrow morning.”
Kobel ignored him, turning his attention to Gregson. He felt the GreatLord’s eyes boring into him, weighing and judging him, and he stifled the urge to brush off the dust from his clothing and armor.
“Lieutenant, you were the leader of the refugees?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What garrison are you stationed with?”
“Cobble Kill, sir.”
The lords leaned over the map, one pointing to what Gregson assumed was Cobble Kill, although he didn’t step forward to verify it. He hadn’t been asked to.
“That’s far behind the enemy lines,” the robust lord murmured, not without grudging respect. “Are you saying you brought a group of refugees from Cobble Kill to here… and they survived?”
Something gripped Gregson by the throat, something hot, fluid, and achy. He choked the sensation down and managed to say, “Not all of us made it, sir. I believe thirty survived, and twenty-five Legion, out of nearly three hundred. Others may have survived as well, sir, I’m not certain. We scattered when the Horde attacked us.”
Murmurs broke out among the men, although Kobel didn’t turn. He continued to stare at Gregson and the lieutenant felt sweat break out in his armpits and along his back, itching in the scratches he’d received in Cobble Kill and burning in the new wound on his cheek.
When the conversation had quieted, Kobel said, “You realize that no one has found their way past the Alvritshai’s army… past the Horde,” he amended with a thin smile, “since their line formed a week ago?”
“No, sir, I had not realized.”
Kobel’s head lowered. “Well, no one has. We have had no word of what has happened to the towns and villages north of our current position. The… Horde had already formed a hard line east to west before word reached us of the attacks on the Province. We barely managed to gather enough of the Legion to meet them, and certainly not enough to hold them.” He motioned Gregson forward, Terson a step behind, and then pointed toward a section of the map. “Our first encounter was here, nearly a hundred miles from our current position. Some of the Legion were still gathering and on their way, but the Horde was too immense to hold there with so few soldiers. We were pushed southward, steadily, until the rest of the Legion joined us here at the Northward Ridge. We managed to stop them here, were holding them back-”
“But then their own reinforcements arrived from the northeast,” the lord grumbled.
Kobel’s expression turned grim, lips pressed tight. “We were hoping that some of the Legion stationed to the north would arrive to split the Horde’s attention to two fronts.” He looked up at Gregson, the question clear in his eyes.
Gregson shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. The Horde decimated our region, from north of Cobble Kill down. We found nothing but the dead in the villages and towns, gathered everyone who’d escaped into our group as we came.”
“Patron’s Merge?” one of the other commanders asked.
“Destroyed. We passed it as it fell. Everyone fled to the south. If the survivors haven’t arrived here, then they’re either dead or hiding.”
The only lord who’d spoken so far swore. “We can’t hold here any longer. We have no defenses.”
Kobel’s brow creased. “What are our options?”
Everyone except Gregson, Terson, and Kobel leaned over to study the map, discussion breaking out among the commanders, suggestions being thrown out and dismissed or cut off mid-voice, tones sharp and curt. Kobel watched a moment, then turned to face Gregson.
As he did, Terson took a step forward, but halted, as if the action had been involuntary.
Kobel’s eyebrow rose. “You have a question?” he asked Gregson’s second.
Terson hesitated, then stiffened, back so straight Gregson expected to hear it snap. But his voice was steady.
“I was wondering what has happened to the Autumn Tree, sir. I thought it was supposed to protect us from these creatures. That’s what I was always taught, sir.”
The group hovering over the map fell silent, all eyes on Kobel.
The GreatLord appeared uncertain for a moment, doubt flashing briefly in his eyes before he steadied himself. One hand touched the top of the table, as if for support.
“The Autumn Tree protects us from the Wraiths and the Shadows and the creatures of the dark. That is what I was told as well. But it does not protect us from the Alvritshai.”
“But, sir, what about the catlike creatures, or the giants, or even the fliers?”
Kobel’s hand closed into a loose fist and he tapped the top of the table. For a moment, Gregson thought he wouldn’t respond. He was the GreatLord of Temeritt Province after all, and Terson wasn’t even a lieutenant. But finally he sighed. “That is the question, isn’t it? There is no mention of any of these creatures in our own legends, but according to the scholars and the priests of Diermani in Temeritt, they are spoken of in the dwarren histories. I would have thought the Tree would protect us from them as well.”
“Perhaps it did.”
Kobel turned. “And why do you say that, Lord Akers?”
“Because a week ago we were only attacked by the Alvritshai. None of these creatures were part of the army we met north of here. They only arrived later. Perhaps the Tree kept them away, and only recently has it begun to fail.”
“I’ve had the priests of the Holy Church of Diermani who’ve looked after the Tree since its seeding outside Temeritt check it since the arrival of the Horde. They claim that it hasn’t failed, that it appears healthy. There are no signs of sickness, of disease.”
“Then perhaps it has merely weakened.”
Kobel drew breath to protest, but held it, then let it out in a slow exhale. “You may be correct. Regardless, it does not change the fact that the Horde is here, the creatures are here. The Tree has failed.”
Lord Akers bowed his head in agreement.
“You mentioned the dwarren,” Gregson said, and suddenly every eye was on him again. “Have there been any dwarren in the Horde?”
“No, there have not. Why do you ask?”
“Because we found a dwarren body in the first village that was attacked near Cobble Kill. I thought at first they were behind it, but I haven’t seen any dwarren since.”
The reaction from the rest of the group was instantaneous, someone growling, “Could the dwarren have betrayed us as well?” another demanding, “What of the Accord? Does it mean nothing to any of them?”
But then Kobel raised his hand and all of the speculation ceased. “The Alvritshai may have betrayed us, but I refuse to believe the dwarren have done the same. I have met with their representatives, have even traveled to their lands. Everything I have learned has led me to believe they are an honorable people.”
He turned back to Gregson, troubled. “Was it only a single dwarren?”
“No. One of the villagers who survived said that there were many.”
“How many?”
Gregson frowned and thought back. The time he’d spent listening to Jayson’s story in Ara’s inn seemed like a distant memory, something that had happened years ago, not merely a month. “Five or six.”
“One of the trettarus,” Lord Akers said.
“So I would assume.” At Gregson’s confused look, he added, “A trettarus is a dwarren war party. They send out groups of their Riders, with special weapons designed to affect these creatures, and hunt them down and kill them. But the trettarus have never entered the Province. The Accord forbids it.”
“They’ve never had to,” Lord Akers said. “The Trees have always kept the creatures to the east. But if they’ve entered our lands, against the Accord, then the Autumn Tree must be failing. It’s the only reason I can see for them to violate the Accord. They’ve always been more interested in their gods than in politics.”
“But they’ve violated Province lands!” one of the commanders protested.
Kobel halted him with a glare. “We have more important things to attend to right now.”
Everyone fell silent, the sounds of the battle that raged a few thousand feet from the tent washing over them.
Lord Akers broke the silence. “But what of the dwarren? Can we count on them to come to our aid?”
“I sent word to them as soon as we knew of the Horde’s attack, to warn them and ask for help. It’s too soon to expect a reply, and after what Lieutenant Gregson has said, I doubt that our message has been received. We must assume that no help will be coming from dwarren lands.”
Lord Akers motioned toward the map, everyone’s attention shifting back to the lines and formations drawn there. “Then I’m afraid we really have only one option remaining. Retreat back to Temeritt. Seek safety behind its walls.”
GreatLord Kobel leaned heavily onto the table, head bowed. No one dared speak. Gregson and Terson shifted awkwardly, aware they were witness to discussions that were normally kept within the highest ranks of the Legion, with only the final decisions passed down the chain of command. But Gregson knew enough about warfare from his own studies to realize what retreat to Temeritt and its walls meant.
A siege, one that he doubted Temeritt had prepared for. There’d been no time for preparation. The Horde’s attack had come too fast, with no warning.
But they could not hope to hold them here, on the empty hills beneath Northward Ridge.
A moment later, GreatLord Kobel looked up, and Gregson could see all of his own thoughts mirrored in Kobel’s eyes.
“Then we retreat to Temeritt. May Diermani send us mercy and the walls hold.”
“Lady Moiran?”
Moiran frowned down at the pages of parchment sorted and stacked neatly into distinct heaps, one for each of the Houses she suspected of being in league with Lotaern. She had gathered more evidence against Lord Orraen and Lord Saetor, but Lord Peloroun appeared to have halted his purchases of food and supplies. Either he’d finished his preparations, or Fedaureon was correct and his actions were legitimate.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t believe that for a moment. Her frustration had reached its peak that morning, when she had finally managed to find a link between Lord Orraen and the Order. She’d written the Lady of House Licaeta to beg her to sell some of the grain purchased earlier in the year, offering an outrageous price for such a small amount, and Vivaen’s response had finally arrived. The letter was frivolous, as nearly all of Vivaen’s missives were. Moiran could practically hear the woman’s giddy laugh as she read it, speaking of trivialities before finally arriving at the heart of the letter: an apology. She couldn’t possibly send Moiran any grain, even at such a generous price, because the excess grain had already been sent to the Sanctuary. She would have to petition the Chosen.
Moiran had cried out as she read it, had summoned a servant to find Fedaureon, then been too impatient to wait, gathering up the papers she’d collected and searching him out herself. He’d been in his father’s room along with Daevon and caitan Mattalaen, studying the layout of Rhyssal House lands, a huge map spread out across the desk before them.
She’d presented Vivaen’s letter in triumph. “Here is our connection to the Order of Aielan. They’re providing the Chosen with the supplies that they purchase under the guise of tithes to the Sanctuary.”
Fedaureon had frowned down at the letter where it had come to rest covering part of the map, then glanced up in annoyance. “The caitan and I are busy, Mother. Can you show me this later? I’ve already informed Father of your earlier suspicions.”
And he’d turned back to the map, brushing the letter aside as he leaned forward. Mattalaen had hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but after a moment had joined her son. Daevon had glared at her son’s back, lips pursed, then cast Moiran an apologetic look.
Moiran had been mortified, her shock transforming into anger after only a few short breaths. She’d carefully picked up Vivaen’s letter and returned to her rooms, moving slowly even as she seethed inside. Aeren would have taken the time to listen to her. But more than that, Fedaureon had shown blatant disrespect for her in front of one who was not part of the immediate family. She wanted him to be independent, but she had never thought he would take that so far as to embarrass her in front of another member of the House.
She had sat in her chamber staring at her evidence, trying to decide what she should do.
Now she murmured beneath her breath, “He’s young, Moiran. He didn’t realize what he’d done. You can reprimand him later, if Daevon hasn’t done so already.” Although now that she thought about it, she should have said something there, in the room, with Mattalaen present. She pinched her nose between her eyes and sighed, shaking her head.
At the door, someone coughed discreetly and she glanced up, mildly shocked. She’d heard the servant arrive, but had forgotten she was there. Berating herself, she asked brusquely, “What is it, Sylvea?”
The servant stepped into the room, her motions tentative. “A few of the servants went down to services at the temple this morning, for dociern, and-”
Moiran’s eyebrow rose as the servant trailed off. “And?”
A look of resignation snapped across Sylvea’s face a moment before she bowed her head. “The member of the Order of the Flame was speaking for that service,” she muttered morosely, “and he was saying things about… about the lords, about how they had faltered in their faith, about how some of them had lost their way. He didn’t mention names, but it was obvious he meant Lord Aeren, and I know it’s not true, but… but he was so convincing! And I could tell that those at the service were listening to him, grumbling under their breath or nodding, and when I asked, they said the member of the Flame has been speaking like this for over a week now, and I just thought you should know.”
Sylvea glanced up at the end, eyes pleading, her words rushing forth in a single breath.
Moiran didn’t move, her body rigid with tension. Inside, her stomach roiled and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the effort painful, then glanced toward the window to judge the light.
“Lady Moiran?” Sylvea’s voice was barely a whisper, fraught with worry.
It snapped Moiran into action.
“It’s nearly terciern,” she said, standing, the papers and Fedaureon’s indiscretion forgotten. “Fetch my shawl… no, go to your own quarters and bring me back one of your own shawls or a cloak, preferably something with a hood so that I can conceal myself. I assume that this priest from the Order of the Flame will be giving the afternoon service?”
Sylvea nodded. “I heard one of the others say that he’s been speaking at nearly every service for the past week.”
“Good. Meet me at the servants’ gate with the cloak. We’ll have to walk down to the town to allay suspicion. Move quickly. We haven’t much time.”
Sylvea darted out of the room, the sound of her soft footsteps receding down the hall as she sprinted for her rooms. Moiran made her way toward the front of the manse. She contemplated telling Fedaureon where she was headed, but dismissed the idea. He was still in Aeren’s rooms with Mattalaen. She could handle this herself.
Ten minutes later she was standing outside the servants’ gate, the late afternoon sunlight not quite warm enough to take the chill out of the breeze. She shivered, then caught sight of Sylvea running toward her across the courtyard, a dark shawl bundled in one hand. She’d had the presence of mind to attire herself similarly. She slowed as she neared Moiran, who took the proffered shawl and draped it over her head, pulling its sides close to conceal her face.
“I hope this will work,” Sylvea fretted.
“This is fine, Sylvea.”
The shawl was large enough to cover her head and fall across both her shoulders, concealing the embroidery near her neck if Moiran pulled its edges in close. None of the servants would have such fine material for clothing, but she hoped the dimness of the temple would hide the quality of her dress. She could do nothing about the shoes without losing more time.
Satisfied, she opened the servants’ gate and motioned Sylvea to follow.
They wound down the road and off the rock promontory overlooking the lake into the streets of Artillien, passing a group of Phalanx who didn’t give Moiran a second glance. Relaxing slightly, she and Sylvea entered the marketplace, the servant taking her arm and chattering away as if they were searching for specific goods even as she wound them toward the temple. Moiran remained quiet, responding when necessary, but her attention was focused on the temple, her anger already building. They had known that the Order of the Flame presented a danger. Aeren had thought that confronting Lotaern in the Evant would be enough, that the Chosen would remove his warrior acolytes as requested and that would be the end of it. But Moiran had partnered with Fedorem as Tamaell long enough to know that once someone was ensconced in their role, they were nearly impossible to move. The members of the Order of the Flame had integrated themselves too deeply into the local temples to be simply ordered home. She hadn’t expected Lotaern to follow the Evant’s edict without a fight.
Sylvea fell silent as soon as they left the marketplace and arrived at the temple doors. Two acolytes stood outside, ushering the last of the supplicants through the doors as the chimes overhead began to announce terciern, the afternoon ritual. Moiran crossed the threshold into the shadowed interior, an acolyte’s hands on her back to guide her. She bowed her head and tugged the shawl farther down over her face as he closed the doors behind them, then followed Sylvea into the back of the chamber, behind a number of other supplicants.
Moiran was shocked at the amount of people in the temple. She’d attended rituals before, but had never seen so many in the afternoon session, when most would be working the fields or minding their own shops. Utiern and cotiern had always been the most popular rituals during the day, never terciern. The fact that there were so many here at this hour sent a shudder of unease through Moiran’s gut.
The supplicants knelt abruptly, and Moiran followed suit, sinking to her knees at the back of the room. Near the front, four acolytes were arranged around the basin that formed the main altar, a fire already burning in the oil that filled it, the flames skirling toward the ceiling, black smoke thick on the air. The oil and smoke burned Moiran’s nostrils and she tried to take shallow breaths as the four acolytes were joined by the two who had stood guard at the door. A chant began. It was the typical terciern mantra, thanking Aielan for the abundance of food, for the sun and rain to grow it, casting blessings on the workers who tilled the soil and the harvest afterward. Moiran murmured the chant without thought, her eyes scanning those gathered and the acolytes near the basin. All of the supplicants were commoners in Artillien, many of whom she’d done business with. Most had family members who worked at the manse. The acolytes were men and women she’d seen at this temple since she began attending after bonding with Aeren and becoming part of the Rhyssal House by blood.
She began to think that Sylvea had overreacted, when the chanting began to die down and the six acolytes bowed down toward the flames that represented Aielan and backed away.
As they retreated, the member of the Order of the Flame appeared, rounding the side of the basin slowly, head lowered and concealed by a cowl. For a moment, it appeared as if the acolytes were bowing down to him instead of to Aielan, and Moiran pressed her lips together in disapproval, knowing that the misdirection was intentional. He wore the same robes as the acolytes, but with additional raiment over the shoulders-a length of silken purple cloth with an embroidered white flame on one side, a cattan on the other.
When he reached the front of the basin, the redgold flames billowing out behind him, he paused, then reached up to his cowl. With a flourish, he flung the cloth back, revealing his face.
At the same time, the fire behind him blazed up with a startling whoosh, the flames changing from red-gold to white.
Those assembled gasped and Moiran’s eyes narrowed.
She didn’t think it was anything more than theatrics, but she had to admit it had an impact. Even Sylvea turned to her with wide eyes, quickly ducking her head as if chastised when Moiran merely shook her head.
“Aielan welcomes you,” the member of the Flame intoned. “She makes Her presence known in the flames of the altar, and in the embers of your heart. Feel Her presence and know that She is with you, always.”
Those around Moiran whispered small prayers to themselves, a few grasping flame pendants that hung around their necks, the man beside her raising it to his lips and forehead. The acolytes who had backed away from the fire began to circulate among those assembled, touching bowed heads in blessing. A few pressed offerings into the acolytes’ hands as they passed-coins, or small bundles of grain, or notes on parchment to be tossed into the flames of the basin.
“You come here seeking solace, seeking Aielan’s blessing,” the member of the Flame continued, “and for that we are grateful. But there are others in Artillien who are not as faithful as you, who have strayed from Aielan’s path, who have lost sight of Aielan’s flame and have been led or have wandered astray. Those Alvritshai should be pitied, for it is only under Aielan’s guidance that we shall be shown the true path and the way back home. It is only with Her protection that we will reclaim the lands that we once ruled and bring ourselves out from beneath this banishment and back beneath Her benevolence.
“And is it not obvious that we have fallen from Her grace? Look at what has become of us. We have been forced to retreat from our own lands, the world becoming cold and bitter toward us. Even as we attempt to build new lives in these lands, we find ourselves plagued with disaster. We have dealt with death since we arrived, with famine as we attempted to work the earth of these new lands, with attacks from races we have never encountered before. As we strive to create peace, even more horrors are unleashed among us. We have seen the return of the sukrael to the world! Their legions attacked our lands as their presence spread, enabled by the human Wraith!”
“But what of the Winter Tree?” someone shouted from those kneeling before the basin. “What of Shaeveran?”
The member of the Flame scowled, began to pace before the basin, the white flames a vibrant backdrop. “What of him? He is shadowed himself. Has he not been touched by the sukrael? Does he not bear their mark?”
“But he brought us the Winter Tree,” a woman murmured.
“Yes, he did, and I ask you, what has it gained us? A reprieve, nothing more. It is a false gift, one meant to lull us into a sense of safety, of complacency. He has brought us the Winter Tree so that we will trust him, but it is a lie, a betrayal!”
Cries of denial rose, and Moiran nodded her approval. Not all of the Alvritshai of Rhyssal House were so easily swayed.
But the member of the Flame merely paused and smiled. “Oh, it is a lie,” he said. “The Chosen has discovered the truth. He has looked into the heart of the Tree and he has discovered that it is failing.”
He said the words quietly, but the resultant gasp from those gathered took Moiran’s breath away.
“It is failing, and at a time of great peril! The armies of the human Wraith are on the move even as we speak. They are heading toward our lands with the intention of killing us all. And I ask, is it coincidence that the Winter Tree is failing now? Is it mere happenstance that the Tree that was planted to protect us would begin to fall at the moment when we need it most? I say no! I say it was planned all along, that Shaeveran-touched by the sukrael, tainted by their shadow-intended for the Tree to fail. He has deceived us! He gave us the Tree to convince us that his heart was true, when his real purpose was to give the sukrael and the human Wraith time to prepare, time to build up their strength and their armies.
“And he has succeeded. He has succeeded in more ways than one. Not content to deceive the Alvritshai people as a whole, he has spread his taint among the Lords of the Evant, among the nobility, as high as the Tamaell himself. Look to your own lord here in the Rhyssal House. He once was one of the faithful, his loyalty pledged to Aielan Herself when he became an acolyte of the Order. Look how he has fallen! He has been seduced by Shaeveran himself into wandering from Aielan’s path, stolen from the Order and set-unwittingly-on the sukrael’s path!”
Moiran hissed through clenched teeth, nearly rose in protest. Only Sylvea’s hand on her arm stilled her, kept her kneeling. Her only consolation was the fierce denial of a few of those kneeling beside her, some shaking their heads.
“You don’t believe me,” the member of the Flame said, and his voice was laden with pain. “Why should you? He is your lord. You are pledged to the Rhyssal House, and he has protected you since his ascension. He fought for you on the battlefields at the Escarpment. His family has shed its blood for you. I do not blame you for your loyalty, but do not pledge it blindly. Your lord has been deceived. The Winter Tree is a false protection, yes, but the Chosen has been gifted with a weapon and a power from Aielan Herself, one that will shift the balance of the coming war from the hands of the human Wraith and the sukrael, from Shaeveran and his tainted blood, into that of the Alvritshai. The Chosen holds the weapon in Caercaern even now.
“But Shaeveran knows of its existence. He has used his influence over your lord to try to gain possession of it. Lord Aeren even attempted to retrieve the weapon for Shaeveran through the Lords of the Evant, but failed. That is how far your lord has fallen.”
Moiran felt nauseous as she glanced around the room, as she noted the faces of the commoners. Some were twisted with doubt, as if they could not bring themselves to believe the acolyte’s words, and yet he was an acolyte, pledged to Aielan. A few were openly angry, brows furrowed.
She turned a hostile stare on the member of the Flame and rose from her kneeling position in disgust. Sylvea hastily stood beside her.
“I’ve heard enough,” she whispered vehemently beneath her breath, turning from the assemblage toward the door.
“Can we save him?” Lotaern’s warrior acolyte said from behind them. “Can we save Lord Aeren of the Rhyssal House? I do not know. I do not think so.” His voice was laced with regret. Moiran had reached the outer doors, paused with her hand against the polished grain of the wood, listening, but she did not turn. Sylvea fidgeted beside her. “Do not count on your lord when the human Wraith and Shaeveran’s army arrives in our lands. He may have traveled too far from Aielan’s path.”
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.