Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

Colin began climbing the rocks back to the roadway, Eraeth reaching forward to pull him up the last stretch. “I think Vaeren nearly chose that path for himself.”

Petraen emerged from the hut and gave a shout, catching their attention as both Boreaus and the last Phalanx appeared, the Flame with a few squirrels held by the tail, Aeren’s guardsman with a rabbit and some type of fowl.

“Looks like we’ll have fresh meat tonight,” Eraeth said.

They headed toward the hut as Aeren and Siobhaen joined the returning hunters. Petraen clapped his brother on the back and took the squirrels from him, the two settling in near the stream with the rest of Aeren’s Phalanx to gut them for roasting. Siobhaen sent the two brothers a sharp look of disapproval as they bantered with the Rhyssal House men, but they pointedly ignored her. After a moment, she shook her head and entered the hut.

“They don’t act like Alvritshai,” Colin said, keeping his voice low, his eyes on the two brothers.

Eraeth grimaced. “They are more Alvritshai than you realize. You’ve dealt mostly with the Lords of the Evant and their Phalanx. The lords are more rigid and formal than the commoners, and more guarded with their emotions. And the Phalanx are trained to formality, since they will be serving their lord and representing the House. The commoners are much more… relaxed.”

Colin smiled. “I see.”

Eraeth scowled. “They’re still more respectable than you humans!”

“Who’s more respectable than humans?” Aeren asked sharply. He’d waited for them at the door of the hut as they approached and now shot Eraeth a look similar to the one Soibhaen had given the brothers earlier.

Eraeth drew himself up stiffly. “No one is more respectable than humans, Lord Aeren.”

Aeren glared at him with suspicious reproach, then nodded. “Very well.” He gave Eraeth one last look, then pushed through the hut’s door and inside.

Vaeren and Siobhaen had already split the room into two sections, the saddlebags of the Flame on one side, room for the Rhyssal House on the other. Vaeren had prepared the flames for spits, the fire crackling, embers fluttering upward as he tossed on another few branches. The smell of smoke had permeated the entire hut, the heat driving out the musty dampness of the stone.

Aeren, Eraeth, and Colin began settling in on the Rhyssal House side, laying out pallets on the stone benches, Eraeth sitting, legs crossed beneath him, and removing his cattan. He began cleaning the blade with a soft cloth, Vaeren watching from the far side of the fire. Siobhaen removed a small dagger and whetstone, the scrape of metal against stone echoing harshly in the small hut. The rest of the group returned, Petraen and Boreaus bearing dinner already on spits. They set them over the fire, Petraen retrieving the bread they’d been given and handing it out, Boreaus turning the spitted animals.

The enticing scent of roasted meat filled the room, thick and heavy, making Colin’s stomach growl. He took the bread from Petraen as he passed and bit into it. He leaned back against the stone of the wall and closed his eyes as he chewed, listening to the schick of Siobhaen’s dagger, the banter between Petraen and the rest of the Rhyssal Phalanx, the softer conversation between Aeren and Eraeth.

Then, when the sounds and smells and warmth had almost lulled Colin into a light sleep, the flutter of a pipe broke through the general noise.

Colin opened his eyes to find Petraen sitting across the fire from him, the pipe drawn to his mouth, his fingers playing lightly over the holes down its length. He ran through a series of runs, the pipe’s sound hollow and playful, lower in tone than Colin would have expected. At the spit, Boreaus shook his head and sprinkled some kind of herb onto the charring meat. The fire sizzled as grease dripped from the carcasses.

Warmed up, Petraen hesitated, then launched into something more serious, the tune vaguely familiar.

Siobhaen stopped sharpening her dagger, set it aside, and began singing.

Colin shifted forward as her voice and that of the pipe drowned out the fire and the cooking meat. The tale of how Aielan’s Light had guided a grieving young woman to her lover’s side on an ancient battlefield, only to find him still alive though gravely wounded, unfolded slowly, hauntingly.

When the last notes faded, the woman having saved her lover’s life, everyone in the hut sat motionless, staring at Siobhaen. Colin’s heart ached with the woman’s struggle, but nothing rivaled the shock he felt and saw on the others’ faces at the raw emotion that had been in Siobhaen’s voice. This was not the Siobhaen that Colin had known on the journey to Artillien, or the days since.

“That was excellently sung,” Aeren said quietly, breaking the silence.

Siobhaen tensed, as if suddenly realizing what she’d done. Colin thought she would draw the mantle of the hard-nosed Order of the Flame about her again, withdrawing herself from the group, but instead she relaxed, her shoulders dropping.

“Thank you,” she said, nodding toward Aeren with a small smile. “Alfaen’s tale has always been one of my favorites.”

“Because Aielan guided her?”

“No. Most of the songs of the battles and times before the Abandonment of the northern reaches are about death and grief and loss. This one is different. She finds Torrain alive, in time to save him.”

They considered this in silence, and then Boreaus swore, lurching forward to grab one of the spits and jerk it from the fire before one of the blackened squirrels could slide into the flames. He hissed as the heat seared his hands, shifting the hot spit from one hand to the other until it cooled enough he could tear a piece of the meat off and taste it.

He grinned. “Time to feast.”

He began slicing chunks free and handing them out, Vaeren moving to grab the second spit. Colin nearly moaned as he bit into the succulent meat, juice dribbling down his chin and through his fingers. He began sucking his fingers clean when he suddenly noticed everyone watching him, Vaeren with thinly veiled disgust, Petraen and Boreaus with grins.

They were all eating meticulously, almost formally, picking the bones clean with their fingers or the blades of small knives, even the two brothers. No juice dripped from their chins, although it did glisten in the firelight on their fingers.

Colin slurped his last finger clean noisily. “I refuse to be anything but human,” he said.

Vaeren glanced toward Aeren and Eraeth, both with studiously blank faces. “I don’t understand why you associate with him.”

Eraeth shrugged. “He has his uses.”

Aeren smiled as Colin gaped in mild affront, but then his face turned serious. “You said we were close to the pass. I have never heard of this pass, nor of this tunnel into the Alvritshai halls beneath the mountain. Caercaern was supposed to be the only path from the northern reaches to the south over the Hauttaeren Mountains.”

Everyone turned to Colin. “The Tamaells since before the time of the Abandonment have kept the secret of this one entrance well. It has a rather dark and deadly history. I found mention of it in some of the oldest records in the Sanctuary, in journals and pages that nearly crumbled apart in my hands. I’m not even certain that Tamaell Thaedoren knows of it.”

“The secret has been kept from even the Evant?” Aeren asked with a frown.

“As far as I can tell. Its purpose, and what it was used for, is not something that the Tamaell or the lords of that time would have been proud of.”

“What was it used for?” Vaeren asked bluntly.

Colin shifted where he sat, frowning as he thought back to reading those pages, sitting in the depths of the Sanctuary’s archives, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of dusty books and loose sheaves of writings. “It was carved out of the mountain in an attempt to betray Cortaemall, the Tamaell of the time.”