Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

Fedaureon nodded his head in understanding. “The Alvritshai commoners will band around him even more. They’ll see him as a savior of sorts.”

“He wants the knife. He may even need the knife,” Aeren said. “The Winter Tree has been in Caercaern for over eighty years. The awe over its creation and its power has faded. For those that live in Caercaern, it has already become commonplace. Only those outside of Resue House lands find it striking. And those that have been born since it was planted, like Fedaureon, have never known a time when the Tree was not in Caercaern, protecting them. When they begin to take their places in the Evant, Lotaern will lose even more of his power, more of his control.”

“It’s already begun,” Eraeth added. “Both Houdyll and Terroec ascended in their fathers’ places after the introduction of the Winter Tree.”

Colin stared at the knife in Eraeth’s hands and grimaced. “I should never have gone to him after forging it, should never have revealed its existence to him.”

“You worked with him in its creation. It was only natural for you to take it to him.”

But Colin knew what Aeren would not say out loud: that Colin had once again ignored the changing world around him, that if he had only looked he would have seen how Lotaern had lost power in the Evant and he would have known that sharing the creation of the knife would be a mistake.

He caught Aeren’s gaze and said, “You are too forgiving.” Then he frowned, shifted forward. “Why does Lotaern seek this power? The Order is already equivalent to a House, from what I saw in the Evant years ago. Hasn’t he achieved enough?”

Aeren sighed and shook his head. “Once, before the threat of the Wraiths and the sukrael, I believe the Chosen would have been content with what he has now, but not any longer. I think he believes that the Wraiths and the sukrael are a trial, sent by Aielan to test us, to bring us all back beneath her Light.”

“He may be right,” Eraeth said.

“Yes, but he believes our failure to eliminate the Wraiths is because we are not showing enough faith-in Aielan, in the Flame… in the Chosen. He believes the Lords of the Evant, and the Tamaell in particular, have fallen short of Aielan’s regard. He believes that it is Aielan’s will that the Order rise up and seize control, that only then can we defeat the Wraiths and the sukrael.”

“With himself as Chosen.”

Aeren nodded. “He thinks the war with the Wraiths is a religious war, and that only with the Order in power can the Alvritshai prevail.”

“I would think he would welcome my help then,” Colin muttered, “since I have brought him the Tree, and now the knife.”

“And have a human be the savior of the Alvritshai?” Eraeth scoffed. “He has reserved that role for himself.”

Moiran returned, trailing a few servants who began clearing out the remains of the food, leaving the wine. “Are the members of the Order situated?” Aeren asked.

“I have placed them in the farthest corner of the house, on the second level. They will have a spectacular view of the lake.”

Aeren smiled. “And be as far from this discussion as possible.”

Moiran sat down beside Colin. “I have no idea what you are insinuating,” she said innocently. “Now, what did I miss?”

“We were discussing Lotaern.”

“He wants the knife, to solidify and regain some of his lost power within the Evant,” Moiran said succinctly. At Fedaureon’s annoyed look, she added, “I was the Tamaea of the Evant at one point, Fedaureon. I know how power works and is wielded.” Then she turned to Colin. “But the caitan asked an important question: Why did you come here? Even using the pass and the halls beneath the mountain, you did not need to come to Artillien.”

Colin could hear in the tone of her voice that she already knew the answer and did not approve. Taking a deep breath, he caught and held Aeren’s gaze and said, “I need reinforcements. I was hoping-”

“No.” Moiran stood as her voice cut across Colin’s, so she could glare down at Aeren. “You are a Lord of the House of Evant. You will not traipse off to the White Wastes.”

“It’s winter. Anything that would require the attention of the Lord of House Rhyssal can be handled by its heir.”

Moiran crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the way Fedaureon perked up in his seat. “It is winter, yes, which means that the White Wastes will be as dangerous and as deadly as at any other time of the year. And it is not the heir’s responsibility to care for the House.”

“But it will be.”

Moiran did not immediately respond, but she did not move either. Colin shared a glance with Eraeth, who still held the knife. Fedaureon had shifted forward and now sat on the edge of his seat, his head bowed, eyes on the ground, although Colin could see the tightness in his shoulders. Daevon regarded his charge with a slight frown of disapproval. The tension in the room was awkward and strained.

Then, in a quiet voice that throbbed with suppressed emotion, Moiran said, “I have already lost one husband to the Evant and the protection of the Alvritshai. I do not want to lose another.”

Aeren stilled, a frown darkening his face, and then he stood as well, reached forward to grip Moiran’s shoulders. She tensed, met his gaze with head tilted upward, mouth set. “Fedaureon can handle the House, especially with you and his Protector here to guide him. And I will not be venturing out alone. I will have Eraeth with me as my Protector, and members of my own Phalanx.”

Moiran pulled out of his grasp, reached down to take up the last decanter of wine, but halted before Eraeth, the Protector stiffening. “Bring him back to me.”

Then she left, the room silent except for the crackle of the fire. Slowly, the tension bled from the room, until Fedaureon finally stirred.

Before he could speak, Aeren said, “Never defy your mother like that, Fedaureon.”

“Not if you value your life,” Eraeth muttered, then he placed the knife back onto the metal mesh of the cloth. Colin folded it up and packed the knife away in his satchel.

“Do you expect trouble from the Flame?”

Colin shook his head. “Not immediately, no. The only reason I think Lotaern allowed me to leave Caercaern with the knife in my possession is that it hasn’t been tested yet, and he knew it would be nearly impossible for him to take it from me and keep it. But I’d feel better having you and Eraeth by my side, rather than only members of the Flame.” He stood, caught Aeren’s gaze. “There’s no need, though, if you’d rather respect Moiran’s wishes. I can handle it myself.”

Aeren shook his head. “I agree with you. We cannot allow Lotaern to take control of the knife. I can’t say he’d use it as we fear, not with certainty, but if there’s something I can do to keep that possibility from occurring, then I’ll do it. And what I said was true. Fedaureon is more than capable of handling the House while I’m gone.”

“Then how long do you need to prepare?”

Aeren smiled. It made him appear twenty years younger. “I can be ready to leave before midday tomorrow.”

“Shaeveran is on the move,” Khalaek reported. Around him, the other Wraiths-six in all, dwarren and Alvritshai-stirred, but Khalaek kept his eyes fixed on the human, Walter, the ostensible leader. Khalaek could barely keep his lip from twisting in derision at the thought, but without Walter-without the Lifeblood-he would have died on the battlefields of the Escarpment, a sacrifice made by Thaedoran to the human king in order to solidify the peace Accord. Khalaek’s hatred of Thaedoran overrode his contempt of Walter… at the moment. He could wait.

Walter held his gaze unflinchingly, but Khalaek did not back down. “Where is Colin headed?”