Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

“I warned him,” Colin said to the guard, his voice soft, although his hands clenched on the staff.

“Yes, you did,” Lotaern muttered. He pressed his finger into the cloth, but did not let go of the knife, turning it in the light of the sconces, examining the handle, the double-sided blade, the sharp point. He glanced toward Colin. “Why a knife and not a sword?”

“The length of wood given to me was not heavy enough for a longer blade. And I thought starting with something smaller would be better, until we knew if it would work.”

“How long did it take to forge this?”

“What day is it? What year?”

Lotaern looked up, eyebrows raised. “The fifth of Iaen, third quarter, the five hundred and eleventh year since the Abandonment.”

Colin thought for a moment. “Then it’s been seventeen years.”

Lotaern’s mouth opened, but no words came out. They stood staring at each other silently, until Lotaern finally closed his mouth and grunted. “Why does it take so long?”

“Because the heartwood must be submerged long enough for the Confluence’s waters to penetrate to the wood’s core. This knife took twelve years. It will take even longer if we attempt the molding of a sword or anything larger. And then, before I could mold it with Aielan’s Light, it had to dry.

“About a month ago, I returned to the Hauttaeren, to the fires below, and I began to craft this.”

“You’ve been down in the Halls for a month and none of the acolytes or members of the Flame were aware of it?”

“Yes.”

Lotaern glared at the Alvritshai who’d given him the now bloody cloth for the cut on his finger. The guardsman shifted uncomfortably, bowing his head slightly. Colin suppressed a small smile as he shifted his grip on the staff. He could sense the animosity radiating from the man, although he wasn’t certain why the member of the Flame felt he was a threat.

“Perhaps we need additional guardsmen surrounding Aielan’s Light,” the Chosen said in a leaden voice, and the guardsman nodded imperceptibly.

“You shouldn’t fault the Order of the Flame,” Colin said. “I can remain hidden if needed.”

“Yes, but you are not the only one with those powers. As we learned before, with the unfortunate Benedine, the Wraiths can hide in our midst as well.”

“Not with the Winter Tree in Caercaern,” Colin countered, then cursed himself for bringing up the touchy subject.

“Ah, yes. The Winter Tree. I’ve often wondered how the Tree protects us from the Wraiths-men and women like you, who have drunk from the sarenavriell-and yet appears to have no effect on you at all.”

Colin almost didn’t answer, Lotaern’s tone carrying an edge, some of the anger over not being consulted about the Winter Tree before its introduction to the Evant seeping through. “I created them,” he finally said. “In some sense, they are a part of me. And unlike the Wraiths, I have not fully embraced the Well. It hasn’t affected me to the extent that it has changed them.” He thought about the stain of the Shadow that swirled beneath his skin beneath the outer robe and the shirt beneath. Creating the Seasonal Trees-and now the knife-as well as trying to establish a balance between the awakened Wells had taken its toll.

“I see.” Lotaern considered for a moment, long enough for Colin to begin wondering what he was thinking, but then he dropped his gaze back to the knife.

“Molding the knife is one thing,” he said, then set the blade back down onto the table between them. “But it doesn’t address the real question.”

“Which is?”

Lotaern looked up. “Does it work? Can it be used against the sukrael? Can it kill one of the Wraiths?”

Colin straightened. “Short of testing it on myself, there’s only one way to find out.” He thought about what Aeren had said on the balcony decades ago, about the dark understanding he’d seen in Eraeth’s eyes, about Walter.

“And do you know where the Wraiths are?”

Colin shook his head. “No. The Faelehgre have still not determined how to track them, or the Shadows, except through the news of those who have been attacked by them.”

Lotaern stilled and frowned. “I thought-” he began, then halted and murmured, almost to himself, “No, you wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve been within the mountain for the last month.”

“I wouldn’t know what?” Colin asked.

Lotaern moved away from the table, toward the two guardsmen and the door. “When the acolyte said that you were here, waiting for me, I thought you’d come for a different reason.” He motioned to the head guardsman, returning the bloody cloth at the same time. The moody guardsman nodded and stepped out into the corridor beyond, and for the first time Colin thought that perhaps the tension he’d felt from Lotaern and the guards of the Order of the Flame came from something other than the strained relationship the Chosen and he maintained.

The Chosen turned back. “Follow me. Vaeren will escort us to the top of the temple. There’s something I need to show you.”

Colin hesitated only a moment, suddenly uncertain and uneasy. He retrieved his satchel, removed a swath of finely made chain mail, the links so small it was nearly cloth, wrapped the wooden knife in the metal folds, and tucked it away.

Vaeren and the other guard were waiting in the outer corridor and began moving as soon as Colin appeared. Members of the Order of the Flame stepped out of their path as they wound through the corridors, climbing stairs until they’d reached the main level of the temple of Aielan that stood in the center of Caercaern. The groups of Flame fell away, replaced by the scurrying acolytes in training in the temple, and still they ascended flight after flight of stairs, passing through corridors that Colin had never seen even during his years of study. The members of the Flame looked apprehensive, but the acolytes merely appeared curious.

“Where are we going? What is it that I need to see?”

“Wait,” Lotaern said. “We’re almost there.”

The wide stairs leveled out, a set of doors at the far end of a narrow hall. Vaeren outpaced them, reaching the doors with enough time to open them just as they arrived at the threshold. A gust of frigid air, tasting of winter and the snows of the mountains, blasted through the opening and bit into Colin’s skin, passing through his robes as if he were naked, and then he followed Lotaern out onto the roof of the temple into the darkness of night. The Chosen didn’t pause, moving across the stone roof toward the building’s edge, his own robes flapping about his feet, his only concession to the cold the hunch in his shoulders. Snow that had fallen earlier blew across his path in a fine dust as Colin followed, staff in hand, satchel flung across his back. Behind, Vaeren and the other guard produced lanterns and came after them, the light reflecting warmly off of the roof, although the lanterns created no real heat against the chill.

When he reached the edge of the building, Colin stared down into the wide plaza in front of the temple, the arc of stone obelisks rising into the night beneath him. Flurries blew back and forth, lifted up by the wind from the few drifts of snow that remained from the recent storm. Lantern lights dotted the cityscape to either side outside the plaza and in the first tier beneath them. From this vantage, Colin could see the base of the Winter Tree over the wall that had been built around it, its leaves thrashing in the wind, its length towering above him, even though the marketplace where he’d planted the seed stood on the far side of the city. It had grown since the planting, and even though he had created the Tree, had crafted the seed using the power of the Lifeblood and Aielan’s Light, its sheer size awed him. He stared up at its branches, the uneasiness Lotaern had evoked crawling across his skin as he searched it for damage, for flaws, assuming the Chosen had brought him to the roof so that he could see the Tree. But he saw nothing wrong, felt nothing wrong, although he’d only be able to tell for certain by touching the Tree itself.