Benjamin Tate - Leaves of Flame

“What’s going on?” Siobhaen asked the moment Colin stepped out of the keeva, the rest of the clan chiefs and head shamans already out in the cavern. The sound of the drums, at least three times louder in the chamber than inside the small room where the meeting had been held, had driven the dwarren into a frenzy of activity. He could hear the clan chiefs shouting orders, Riders scrambling to obey, the rest of the dwarren sprinting to get out of the way. The sudden activity and the harsh boom of the drums had set the horses and gaezels on edge.

“The dwarren have been called to a Gathering.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked in frustration. A group of dwarren jostled past her and she frowned down at them in annoyance, one hand gripping her horse’s bridle as she stepped back.

“It’s like calling the Evant,” Eraeth said. “The dwarren only call a Gathering for something of extreme importance, something affecting the dwarren as a whole. Otherwise, the clan chiefs deal with it individually.”

“The presence of three clan chiefs in one territory was significant enough, but this will bring them all together.”

“Where? And over what?” Eraeth asked.

Colin paused and listened to the deep bass throat of the drums. “The call is coming from the Painted Sands Clan, the easternmost dwarren territory. But they’re meeting at the Sacred Waters. They’re headed toward the Confluence.”

As he said it, the heavy boom of the drums faded. The dwarren paused for a moment, then resumed their frantic activity at a growled shout from Quotl. At the same time, a smaller drum within the chamber picked up a different rhythm, the sound echoing through the hall and up the long corridor toward the surface.

“I still don’t understand,” Siobhaen muttered.

Colin ignored her, stepping forward into the edge of the confusion. The two Alvritshai, Colin, and the horses had been left by the keeva, practically unattended. He searched for Clan Chief Tarramic, found him arguing with two of the head shamans, all three of them gesturing toward the mouth of the corridor where the summons had originated.

Behind, he heard Eraeth speaking to Siobhaen in a soft voice.

“The Confluence is the religious center of the dwarren. It’s the heart of their culture. No Alvritshai has ever been there. It was the goal of the Trials that those in the ruling Houses made before the Accord put an end to it. The sons and daughters of the ascendant lords were sent into the plains in search of the ruanavriell, the Blood of Aielan. Most found tunnels on the plains that led to streams or pools of water suffused with the healing water’s runoff, but no one ever found the source.”

Colin thought of the vial of pink-tinged water that Aeren had gifted to his father, the result of Aeren’s own Trial, and felt a tug of bitterness, the emotion too used and worn to remain long. Whatever his father had used it for had been for naught once they reached the Ostraell.

Siobhaen considered what Eraeth had said, then stepped up to Colin’s side. “But it doesn’t make sense. The dwarren aren’t reacting to what we know has happened to the sarenavriell. They can’t be. The drums came before you emerged from the room with the clan chiefs.”

“You’re right. This is something else.” He hesitated, then added, “I think it has to do with the activity to the east.”

“What activity?” Eraeth demanded.

“Activity with the Shadows. Sightings of another creature they call the kell in larger and larger groups. And bands of Alvritshai or perhaps humans deeper in the Thalloran Wasteland.”

“Alvritshai in the Wastelands?” Siobhaen scoffed. “Impossible. We come from the north. We would never survive in the desert.”

“Are you so certain? You’ve adapted to the southern reaches of the mountains rather well.”

“Regardless,” Eraeth interjected before Siobhaen could respond, “we should send word back to the Evant. The Tamaell should be aware of the dwarren movements, especially on such a large scale.”

“Lotaern should be forewarned as well.”

Eraeth shot her a piercing look and Colin nearly sighed. Siobhaen would have to bring up Lotaern now, after the two of them had been grudgingly civil to each other for the past few days. But surprisingly, Eraeth said nothing.

“We aren’t going to get the chance to send word.”

Both Eraeth and Siobhaen reacted at the same time. “Why not?”

Colin let the rumble of thousands of hoofed feet pounding into stone answer for him. Both of the Alvritshai guards turned toward the sound as it filled the cavern with its echo, the drums that had called to the surface falling silent. The dwarren who filled the giant plaza suddenly parted, surging to either side and clearing the space before the main corridor opposite the waterfall. As they did so, the three clan chiefs stepped forward, the head shamans a few paces behind.

A moment later, the leading edge of Riders emerged from the corridor, standing five abreast. Row upon row of the gaezels appeared, the leading group swinging around in a wide circle to make room for those coming behind in a pattern that Colin had first seen on the plains above decades ago. As the wide plaza filled, the number of Riders growing large enough that Colin’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, he noted that not all of the gaezels bore dwarren. The group had brought down the mounts of those already below.

Tarramic raised a hand when the last of the Riders appeared, his other stroking the beads and feathers interlaced in his beard. Those milling about in the central plaza stilled, the cessation of sound spreading like a ripple on water from Tarramic’s position, although it was impossible for the hall to fall totally silent with the waterfall raging in the background.

As he began to speak, his rumbling voice filling the cavern, Siobhaen grasped Colin’s arm in irritation, forced him to look at her. “What is he saying?”

“He’s telling the clans-all of the clans present-to prepare to leave for the Sacred Waters. We’ll depart at dawn.”

“We can send word back to Caercaern then,” Eraeth said succinctly.

Colin shook his head. “No. We can’t.”

“Why not!” Siobhaen’s grip tightened.

He turned a somber gaze on her. “Because we won’t be traveling on the surface. We’ll be traveling underground.”

Aeren Goadri Rhyssal stood on the balcony of his House holdings in Caercaearn and stared out across the tiered city as it came to life. Lanterns were doused by patrols as the sun dawned on the horizon, gray light filtering through the peaks of the Hauttaeren Mountains where they dipped southward east of the city, purple with distance. The Sanctuary chimes rang utiern.

Aeren’s thoughts turned toward Lotaern and the Order of Aielan. He frowned, one hand rising to grip the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, a symbol of all that he had achieved while an acolyte within the Order, before his father and brother died on the battlefields of the plains and forced him to return to ascend as Lord of the Rhyssal House. If he had remained in the Order, would he support Lotaern now, in whatever power play he was making?

He didn’t know. It would have been a question he posed to Eraeth, a musing that the man who had practically raised him would have discussed with him in the early hours of dawn before the day began, but his Protector was not here. He felt the loss as a pang in his chest, a hollowness that he had not realized he would experience when he had given the Phalanx guardsman permission to accompany Colin.

Eraeth had been more of an integral part of his life than he had known.

A bitter, ironic smile turned his lips. He should have known. He could not remember a time when Eraeth had not been there, except for his years spent in the Sanctuary as an acolyte. His earliest childhood memory was of reaching for his father’s sword-the Rhyssal House sword-and having his Protector slap his hand away. He’d glared at the young guard who’d been hovering over him, even as he rubbed the ache from his hand, and vowed revenge. Days later, he’d lined the guard’s ceremonial helmet with black ink. It hadn’t quite dried yet when Eraeth had donned it for the Licaeta House’s arrival that afternoon.