Authors: Joshua Palmatier
Leaves of Flame (21 page)
Tuvaellis smiled beneath her cowl. “I need help loading a chest aboard a ship.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.” The coin, stamped with the crude image of Justinian, was within the ruffian’s reach. All he had to do was snatch it and run. Not that he would make it far.
She saw the intent in his eyes, saw it die. His head lowered and he looked away guiltily. “Is not worth a silver,” he said.
“It is to me.”
He glanced back at her, then toward his friend, who cast him a questioning look.
He reached for the coin, but Tuvaellis let it slip back into her hand. “After.”
The ruffian scowled, but motioned toward his companion.
She led them through the streets without looking back, confident that they followed, although they kept out of her reach and to the sides of the streets, ready to flee at any moment. As they moved, the younger carried on a whispered, fervent conversation with his elder, shaking his head and frowning, but the eldest finally growled and barked a harsh order. The youngest fell silent after that, but kept his eyes locked on Tuvaellis as they moved.
They reached the inn where she had stayed the night before and she motioned the two up to her room, ignoring the quizzical looks of the innkeeper. A moment later, the two ruffians were hauling the trunk down the stairs, one on each end. It wasn’t a large trunk, perhaps three hands long, two deep and two high, but it was heavy. Tuvaellis carried her own satchel.
By the time they’d made their way back to the wharf, the two ruffians were cursing the awkward trunk and shooting her scathing glances. She paused at the end of a dock, then found the
Mary Gently
and halted before the man at the end of its plank. The two boys plunked the trunk down behind her.
The sailor eyed her, then the two boys. “What do you want?” he asked.
Tuvaellis straightened slightly and the man’s eyes widened. He drew back, clutching the manifest he held in his hands closer to his chest. His white, wispy hair blew around his head; his beard was scraggly and rough.
“I am your passenger.”
He ran a hand over his unshaven face. “There’s no mention of these . . . boys.”
“They’re here to deliver the trunk to my room, that is all.”
The man still hesitated, but fi nally motioned up the ramp. “Very well. I’ll take you to your quarters.”
She followed as he stumped up the ramp, then down a short ladder into the depths of the ship. The two thieves spat and argued as they navigated the steps and the narrow corridor beyond before depositing the trunk at the door to what would be her quarters for the next month or more.
“This is where you’ll be stayin’,” the sailor muttered, motioning to a room barely large enough to hold her and the trunk. A cot folded down from one wall beneath a set of cupboards.A chamber pot sat in one corner.The only interruptions to the monotony of the wood were the worn but polished metal clasps and hinges on the cupboards and the latch to her door. “The mess is down the hall, food served at the bell. You can eat it there, or bring it back here. And I’d suggest you stay off the deck as much as possible. No need to give the crew ideas, what with a woman aboard and all.”
Tuvaellis smiled in the shadows of her hood. “The crew does not worry me.”
The sailor shook his head. He clearly didn’t agree with his captain about bringing a passenger aboard, especially a woman.
The older of the ruffians coughed surreptitiously and gave her a meaningful look.
She frowned, then remembered the coin. Taking it from the folds of her cloak, she tossed it to him. He snatched it out of the air with ease, cast one last greedy look back, then he and his young companion made for the deck.
“You’ll only encourage them,” the sailor growled.
She didn’t answer, simply stared at him until he fidgeted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “The
Mary Gently
will be leavin’ with the tide. We’re only waitin’ for a last shipment of spices to arrive.”
“Very well.”
He hesitated a moment more, then harrumphed, stepped carefully around her trunk, and vanished into the corridor.
Tuvaellis lowered the cot and tossed her satchel on it, then stared down at the trunk in the doorway. It was made of oiled wood—oak and ash—polished to a high sheen, its corners fitted with brass accents. The oak had been stained a dark brown, the inlaid ash paneling left its natural color. Two thick leather handles had been pinned to the ends for easy carrying; there were no marks on the trunk.
Tuvaellis knelt down beside it and rested her hand on the top. Even through the wood and the layers of protective cloth, she could feel the pulse of the object nestled inside, the object Walter had given her so many months before. She closed her eyes, her own heartbeat slowing and falling into sync with what was within. It lay silent, but she could sense the potential with which it had been imbued, taste the power it held wrapped in its innocuous form.
They had tried to transport the Shadows across the Arduon, but none of them had survived. They could not sustain their forms over such a large expanse of water, their dissolution occurring even with the foundation of the ship beneath them and the crew to feed upon. So they had turned to politics, attempted to incorporate their own among the ranks of the Families and the Court. But unlike the Provinces, the Families were too closely knit, the opportunities sparse. They had only managed to gain a foothold with the Church of Diermani, a powerful entity within Andover, more powerful than it had ever been since the RoseWar,but still not one of the Families of the Court.And they had only gained a foothold at best.
But a foothold would be enough.
Tuvaellis stood, rounded the trunk, then knelt and shoved it across the plank floor to a position under the cot.
If they could not influence the Court, and could not corrupt the highest levels of the Church, then Andover would have to be dealt with in a more drastic manner. It could not be left unattended, could not be left capable of aiding the Provinces, the Alvritshai, or the dwarren.
And it had fallen to Tuvaellis to take care of the matter.
D
EEP WITHIN THE HAUTTAEREN MOUNTAINS beneath Caercaern, two acolytes stood before the solid stone doors of the inner halls, their eyes glazed with boredom. There were no ceremonies scheduled for the day, nothing that would require the Chosen or a covey of fellow acolytes or any members of the Flame to descend into the depths of the ancient halls. Certainly nothing that would require them to open the door that had been carved from two massive slabs of granite, the scenes on each—one depicting a lost location of the northern reaches during summer, leaves fl uttering on a warm breeze; the other the same scene held in the icy throes of winter, the trees skeletal—worked in such detail that neither acolyte dared to touch them. The two had compared notes on the Sanctuary’s activities when they’d first arrived and relieved those who had stood guard before them, had stared at each for a moment, then sighed and settled in for a long watch.With nothing scheduled,they would be guarding the doors for the next eight hours, with nothing to do but stare into the darkness of the corridor beyond the slew of lanterns that lit the room.
“I don’t understand.”
Caera shifted uncomfortably. The acolytes that guarded the doorway to the inner halls were supposed to remain ritually silent. They weren’t supposed to converse.
But she’d already suffered four hours of silence.
Reluctantly, she said, “What don’t you understand?”
A tension in Thaddaeus’ shoulders relaxed, as if he thought he’d be reprimanded for speaking. Both of them remained standing in place, at ease, but backs straight, their leather armor hidden beneath brown robes, ceremonial staffs held before them, butts planted solidly on the stone floor of the corridor. Neither glanced toward the other.
“Why we’re here. The formality of it. No one is coming down to the inner sanctum today. The Chosen and the others know that. So why send two acolytes? We could be doing something else, something important.”
“Such as?”
“Research. Study. Contemplation.”
“Perhaps that is what we are supposed to be doing now. Contemplating. In silence.”
Thaddaeus fell silent, rebuked. Caera raised her head slightly, stood a fraction straighter.
Then broke the silence five minutes later.“What are you contemplating?”
Before Thaddaeus could answer, a hollow booming sound filled the wide chamber where they stood. Both acolytes stiffened and shot each other terrified glances as the echoes faded down the corridor that stretched out before them.
“I think it came from behind us,” Thaddaeus said, his voice weak and thready.
Caera turned and looked at the massive doors. The two scenes—summer and winter—were split down the center by a border a hand wide. Near chest height, two huge bronze rings had been set into the stone, used to pull the doors open when one of the Sanctuary’s many ceremonies required descending into the mountain depths to Aielan’s Light, or when one of the acolytes required access to the ancient Alvritshai halls for their research.
Thaddaeus reached forward to grasp one of the rings before glancing toward Caera in uncertainty. She shrugged.
The hollow boom echoed again through the corridor and Caera was gratified to see Thaddaeus flinch.Then he pulled on the bronze ring, the counterweighted door opening smoothly but slowly.
From the depths beyond, three members of the Flame stepped forward, two torches raised to ward against the darkness.
The leader’s eyes latched onto Caera and she started.
“I am Vaeren Tir Assoum, caitan of the Order of the Flame. I need to speak to the Chosen immediately.”
As Aeren, Eraeth, Colin, Siobhaen, and Hiroun crested the last ridge before the descent into Artillien, the first of the town’s bells began ringing, announcing their lord’s arrival home.
Aeren shook his head, his face set as a lord’s should be as he contemplated his holdings, the winter sun harsh on the water of the lake, the Rhyssal House banners flapping over his manse, but Colin could see the twitch in his cheek below his eye as he tried to control his relief over being home. If Siobhaen had not been here, he thought the lord might have actually smiled, but her presence had put a strain on their entire journey back through the mountains and to Rhyssal House lands. Neither Aeren nor Eraeth trusted her, so both refused to relax in her presence.
“One of the House towns or outposts must have sent word ahead of us,” Eraeth said, edging his horse ahead of Aeren, “to alert them to our arrival.”
“As they should,” Aeren said stiffly. But then Aeren sighed and let a small smile peek through. “Perhaps they will have a feast waiting for us.”
Eraeth merely grunted, although his horse snorted and stamped the stone roadway as if in anticipation. Hiroun grinned.
“I could use a feast,” Colin said. He shifted in his saddle, trying to relieve the pressure of his wound. He’d wanted to drink from the Well in order to speed up the healing process, but he’d drunk more in the last few weeks than he had in the last few decades and didn’t want to allow the taint of the Well to spread any more than necessary. But the pain had slowed them down. “And a night of complete rest in a real bed.”
“I, as well,” Siobhaen said.
The tension between her and those from Rhyssal tightened as she spoke, but Aeren simply nodded toward Artillien, where more bells had joined the first and they could now see activity within the manse overlooking the lake. “It will be good to see Moiran and Fedaureon,” Aeren murmured, then nudged his horse over the rise.
They rode through the town without halting, shouts rising from those they passed, slowing only as they reached the roadway up to the walls of the manse. The gates were open, Rhyssal House Phalanx waiting to either side to take their horses, but Aeren’s gaze locked onto his wife and son where they stood on the steps of the manse. Colin hung back, beside Siobhaen, as the lord dismounted, Eraeth close behind, younger guardsmen leading their horses away as Aeren strode up to the landing.
“House Rhyssal welcomes home its lord,” Moiran said with a bow of her head. She could not keep the smile from her face, nor the warmth from her voice.
“And its lord is glad to be home,” Aeren said with a broad grin. He nearly laughed, but caught himself. A small crease of concern etched his brow briefly as he gazed at Moiran, and with a closer look Colin realized why. Moiran had aged while they were gone. New wrinkles touched the skin around her eyes and mouth, making her face look drawn and tired.
Fedaureon had aged as well, although in a different way. He stood straighter, shoulders back, his face full of eager vitality.
Moiran’s gaze swept through the remaining three members of the party.“Where are the others—caitanVaeren and the rest of the Flame?”
Aeren immediately sobered.“Much has happened,none of which we can speak of here.”
Moiran nodded. “I have had a meal prepared. We can discuss everything in the confines of your study. Fedaureon, accompany your father. I’ll see to the rest of the guests.”
She motioned Fedaureon and Aeren forward, Eraeth and Daevon trailing behind, Fedaureon speaking to his father in a hushed voice almost immediately. The last Colin saw of them,Aeren had frowned.Then they were lost to the shadows beneath the portico.
Moiran moved down the steps and clasped Colin’s hands. “It is good to see you return, old friend.” Her gaze slid toward Siobhaen, and Colin suddenly realized that he and Hiroun had positioned themselves to either side of her, as if they were guarding her, hemming her in.
“It’s good to be back, although I won’t be staying for long. I don’t believe you were formally introduced to Siobhaen before.”
Moiran’s hands tightened their hold, “No, but I remember her. Welcome, Siobhaen.”
Siobhaen bowed her head.“Aielan’s Light upon you and your House.”
Moiran caught Colin’s gaze, brow furrowed in consternation. But she had been the Tamaell’s wife for far too long to ask questions she knew he could not answer here.
She led them into the manse, but slowly, and Colin suddenly realized she was giving Fedaureon and Aeren time to talk. They passed through the halls to Aeren’s study, where a table had been set, already laden with trays of fruit and cheese and a decanter of wine. Servants were removing extra place settings, laid out for Vaeren and the others, Colin assumed. Aeren, Eraeth, and Fedaureon were at the massive desk, papers scattered before them, Aeren scanning them with intent. Moiran frowned at them, but motioned Colin, Siobhaen, and Hiroun toward seats, even as the first steaming tray of food arrived.
Aeren looked up as the robust aroma of roasted meat and vegetables filled the room, then dropped the missive he’d been reading. “We can discuss this later,” he said to Fedaureon, even though he remained troubled.
Fedaureon began to protest, but at a look from Daevon, he became silent.
The entire group seated themselves, Moiran and Aeren at each end of the table, as more platters began to arrive. Aeren nodded to Fedaureon to formally bless the food in Aielan’s name, and then the group began serving themselves from the heaping trays.
For a long moment, no one spoke, Moiran’s eyebrows rising in shock as those in the party ate as if ravenous. Colin grunted at his first bite of the roasted pheasant, flavored with a sauce containing rosemary and other herbs. Servants poured wine and hustled to replace empty platters, bowls of a creamy squash soup appearing, with some kind of spice that left a mild burn on the back of the tongue. But as soon as the initial hunger for something besides fi re-roasted rabbit eaten with fingers had been slaked, Aeren asked, too casually, “So what has occurred in my absence?”
Colin felt a moment of surprise when Fedaureon straightened in his seat, washing down a bit of meat with a swallow of wine before he began. Moiran had always given the reports in the past.
“Winter harvests went well. We have an excess of wheat from the central and eastern fields. I’ve allocated most of it for use in the Ilvaeren, the rest for trade with the Provinces. Nearly half of that is already on its way to Neaell, to be stored and shipped south in the spring.”
“And I have already contacted some of the other ladies of the Ilvaeren regarding the portion we have kept,” Moiran said.“I believe that we can use the grain to garner some decent concessions regarding our own future needs.”
Aeren nodded, then motioned toward Fedaureon with his knife. “Continue.”
Fedaureon launched into a further accounting of some of the early winter harvests, a nervous tightness around his eyes relaxing as he spoke, as if he’d expected Aeren to be disappointed with the decisions he had made while they were gone. But Aeren said nothing, questioning him occasionally on his reasoning, or offering up a different point of view, but never actively countering any of the decisions his son had made. Colin did notice that none of the discussion concerned anything that would be of interest to Siobhaen or the Order of Aielan; both Fedaureon and Aeren were obviously still aware of her presence. Watching Fedaureon, Colin caught moments—an expression, a gesture—when he reminded him so strongly of Aeren as he had been when they’d first met on the plains that he winced.
Moiran reached forward and touched his arm, drawing his attention away from father and son, then said in a soft voice, “I shocked Fedaureon a little while you were away. Until recently, we’ve been including him in the decisions made for the House, both in the Evant and the Ilvaeren, but the final decisions have been ours. When Aeren left for this little adventure,” her voice was tinged with the disapproval she’d voiced before they’d departed, “I decided that it was time Fedaureon received a taste of what making the decisions himself would be like.”
“And?”
“He fared . . . well.”
Colin grinned. “Meaning he didn’t make the decisions you or Aeren would have made.”
“Not on all counts, no. But that is to be expected. He is not Aeren, and I do not expect him to be. One day the House will be his. He will learn from his mistakes.”
Colin’s heart faltered. He could not conceive of the Rhyssal House without Aeren as its lord. At the time they met on the plains, Aeren had been the younger of two sons, there for his Trial, with the expectation that his brother Aureon would ascend and take over the House on their father’s death. But since then, since Colin’s emergence from the Ostraell and his transformation into Shaeveran by the Well, Aeren had been the House’s lord.