Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

She led them to one of Aeren’s outer rooms. A fire blazed in the hearth, the room warmer than the entrance, the soft light glowing on the many glass objects strewn around the room on tables and desks and amidst more carefully trimmed plants and small trees. A large desk took up most of the central area, the wide top littered with books and papers and spent quills and ink bottles. Another desk off to one side was draped with blue-and-red cloth and held a single fat white candle in a gold basin, surrounded by a dagger, a sword, a locket with a fine silver chain, and the pendant Colin recognized as the sign of Aeren’s successful completion of his studies as an acolyte at the Sanctuary.

Aeren sat in one of an array of chairs around a low table and stood as Moiran arrived. His smile didn’t falter at all when Vaeren entered behind him, although he folded his hands before him.

“Colin, it’s good to see you. You know Eraeth, of course,” he said motioning toward his Protector, who stood as always to one side. Eraeth’s gaze had settled on Vaeren, the two watching each other silently. “And my son, Fedaureon, along with his Protector, Daevon.”

Daevon nodded formally, darker and broader of shoulder than Eraeth, with the same deadly stance all of the Phalanx used. But when Fedaureon rose from his seat beside his father, Colin had to stifle a gasp, his eyes widening. “Fedaureon?”

The young man-young by Alvritshai standards-smiled and stepped forward to take Colin’s hand in a human handshake. “Yes, Shaeveran, it’s me.”

“You’ve… grown.”

Fedaureon laughed and motioned toward the chairs spread around the low table as servants appeared carrying decanters of wine, glasses, and platters of food. “It’s been nearly twenty-five years since you last saw me,” he said. “I’m not surprised I look different. Sit. My father and I were discussing the Evant and current trade negotiations with the Provinces and Andover. We could use a diversion.”

Aeren frowned as everyone settled and when Fedaureon took his seat beside his father Colin glanced back and forth between them. Fedaureon looked like a younger version of his father in every respect except the eyes; he had Moiran’s green eyes.

“He looks like you when I first met you on the plains,” Colin said with a tight smile to Aeren. The smile broadened when Eraeth snorted. “A slightly older version of you.”

“There is a resemblance, yes,” Moiran muttered. “Please, eat, drink. Your travels must have been harsh with the recent storms. Was the snow troublesome? Were the roads kept clear?”

“For the most part,” Colin said. “We had no serious trouble, it was merely-”

“Annoying,” Vaeren interjected.

No one reached for the food; they were all waiting for Colin, he realized.

He took one of the small plates on one of the trays and began with a few slices of the smoked meat he recognized as gaezel from the plains, ladling a spicy sauce that smelled of oranges over it. As soon as he started, the rest leaned forward for their own trays.

“I was going to say it was merely an inconvenience,” he said dryly. “I should introduce my traveling companions. Vaeren is caitan of the Order of the Flame. The others are Siobhaen, Boreaus, and Petraen, also members of the Flame.”

Aeren nodded to Vaeren. “Welcome to Rhyssal House.”

“Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality,” Vaeren answered. “May Aielan’s Light guide your House to prosperity.”

“It has.” Aeren’s gaze drifted to Colin. “So what brings you to Rhyssal at this time of year, and with such company?”

“The sarenavriell.”

Aeren, Moiran, and Eraeth stilled. Fedaureon and Daevon looked confused. It was not what they had expected.

Moiran was the first to move, reaching to pour some wine, but it was Aeren who spoke.

“The sarenavriell?” His voice was troubled. “I thought the Wells had been stabilized.”

“I thought so as well. For that matter, they may still be stabilized.”

“What makes you think otherwise?”

“Do you remember the storms on the plains?”

“They are impossible to forget. They were violent, their winds harsh, driving the rain so hard it felt as if it would scour your skin raw. And the lightning was… unnatural. Wicked. The thunder growling in your chest.”

Colin shuddered, recalling the viciousness of the storm that had caught the wagon train as it fled from the dwarren. He caught Aeren’s eyes and saw the same memory reflected there.

Fedaureon stirred. “What are you talking about? What storms?”

Aeren shook his head. “You would not know. The storms had been part of the plains since the arrival of the Alvritshai south of the Hauttaeren Mountains. The dwarren say that they were always part of the plains, as far back as their shamans can remember. But in the years before the Accord, the storms began to grow in intensity.”

“The number and size of the occumaen as well,” Moiran added. A shiver ran down her arms as if she were chilled, and her gaze met Colin’s, her eyes sad.

“Yes. The occumaen also became more prevalent. Shaeveran thought that the storms and the occumaen were the result of the awakening of the Wells by the Wraiths. He thought their actions were causing an imbalance, and that the storms and the occumaen were the side effects.”

Colin nodded. “After the Accord, I intended to see if I could correct the imbalance and stop the storms, but the attacks of the Wraiths on Alvritshai and dwarren lands grew too intense. I spent years trying to help the two races fight them, before finally realizing that something more drastic needed to be done. I created the Seasonal Trees so that the threat of the Wraiths and the Shadows would be halted, and after their seeding I focused my attention on the stability of the Wells. It took thirty years, and I lost count of how many times I faced the Wraiths and the Shadows, but I achieved a balance.”

“And the storms stopped,” Aeren said. “The occumaen faded. There hasn’t been an instance of either since you were born, Fedaureon.”

“Until now,” Vaeren said, and Aeren, Eraeth, and Moiran turned toward him.

He stood, his stance formal, as if he were addressing Lotaern in the Sanctuary, or the Lords of the Evant in the Hall. “Over a month ago, one of the acolytes from an outer temple on Uslaen House lands arrived at the Sanctuary with word of such a storm that ravaged the town the temple served. The Chosen did not believe him and sent a party of the Flame to verify the account. Since then, numerous reports of the storms have been drifting in from Redlien, Ionaen, and Licaeta, as well as Uslaen. A missive was sent to the dwarren shamans, the reply received two weeks ago. It appears a resurgence of the storms has been reported across the breadth of the plains. The occumaen as well. When Shaeveran appeared in the Sanctuary, we thought it was because of the recent activity.”

“But I hadn’t heard of the storms,” Colin said. “I was in Caercaern for a different reason.” He picked up the satchel he’d placed on the floor near his feet and removed the fine chain-metal cloth that held the knife. Aware that Vaeren frowned down at him in disapproval, he set the cloth on the table between the trays of food and then opened its folds.

The reddish-yellow color of the knife appeared to glow in the flickering firelight. Aeren and Fedaureon leaned forward, Eraeth and Daevon stepping away from their respective corners. Moiran leaned back with a frown.

Aeren shot Colin a hard look. “Does it work?”

“Does what work?” Daevon asked. “What is it?”

“It’s a knife that I believe will be able to kill one of the Wraiths. A knife that should be able to kill the sukrael.”