Breath of Heaven, page 11
“What has the Order done with my father?” he demanded, but he didn’t give him time to answer. Their swords met, grating against each other as rage enveloped Fedaureon and his months of intense training took over. Smug satisfaction flicked through Heffaeren’s eyes and Fedaureon slashed forward again and again, barely aware that his Phalanx kept his flanks protected as chaos broke out behind him. He was entirely focused Heffaeren, on beating the Flames’ sword aside as they set upon each other with a furor Fedaureon had never felt before. It suffused him, amplified by the heat of the room, by the adrenalin coursing through his body, by the scent of the spice in the air. Their blades clashed, snicked apart, struck again. Vibrations shuddered through Fedaureon’s arm. He parried, countered, snatched an opening, and with sudden force hit Heffaeran’s fingers with the pommel of his sword. The member of the Flame cried out, his cattan falling from his numbed grasp, clattering on the stone floor beneath the basin. Fedaureon pulled his blade back for a killing strike, met by Heffaeren’s steady gaze.
It caused Fedaureon to hesitate.
Heffaeren flung his arms out wide, chest exposed. “Kill me. Kill the heart of Aielan.”
There was no fear in his eyes, only a cold, hard purpose, a singular intent.
Before Fedaureon could ram the blade through the Flame’s heart, someone struck Heffaeren in the back of the head from the side, the member of the Flame crumpling to the ground.
Fedaureon spun on Daevon, his Protector. “He was mine!”
“We need him.” Then he nodded toward the rest of the temple.
Fedaureon lowered his sword and turned. Behind, the temple was littered with overturned benches and the scattered bodies of commoners and acolytes. Two of the Phalanx lay among them, all unconscious and bleeding from scrapes and more serious wounds. The second member of the Flame, Saederis, was slumped over a pew to the right.
Mattalaen stepped up to Fedaureon’s side. “A few of the commoners and acolytes attempted to intercede. We subdued them as quickly as possible.”
“Was anyone killed?”
“Two, an acolyte and one of the supplicants. Another commoner may not survive his wounds.”
Fedaureon nearly cursed, but hardened himself. “Take the Order of the Flame and any of those that resisted to the manse and secure them. I’ll want to talk with Heffaeren when he rouses. He has news of what happened in Caercaern.”
“And the commoners? Word of what happened here will spread. It won’t be looked upon kindly.”
Fedaureon flinched at the reprimand, wondered what his father would have said if he’d been there, wondered what his mother would say. But he couldn’t show doubt here, not in front of the Phalanx. It hadn’t gone as he’d expected, but then he’d assumed the Flame would be reasonable. “We’ll deal with that later. Get them to the manse, and have healers see to the wounded.”
“And what will you do?”
Fedaureon knew he didn’t need to answer, but he met Mattalaen’s gaze and said, “I intend to report this to my mother.”
He saw his Protector’s nod of approval from the corner of his eye.
6
“What have you done?” Lord Saetor’s voice echoed in the chamber where the Evant met, his anger directed at Peloroun. But his gaze didn’t rest long on the lord who had just finished addressing the remaining members of the Evant. It leaped to Orraen, who stiffened, before dodging toward the Chosen. “What have you all done?”
Lotaern shifted in his seat. Vaeren stood protectively at his back, but there would be no threat here in the Evant, not with each lord in attendance having only five members as escort—three of their own personal Phalanx and two note-takers. The limited numbers had been necessary in order to get all of the surviving lords to come. Saetor, Daesor, and Houdyll had retreated behind barricaded doors while Peloroun and Orraen seized control of Caercaern over the last month. It had taken Lotaern to coax them out. But they were still wary, even with Lotaern’s assurances that the coup was over. The rigid stances of their Phalanx and their grim faces were testament to that.
And Lotaern needed them—or rather, their Phalanx—if he were to continue with his plans.
“They have done what should have been done by the Evant years ago,” he said. “Lords Aeren and Terroec, and Tamaell Thaedoren, betrayed Aielan and the Alvritshai with their collusion with the human known as Shaeveran. They have weakened us to the point where we are nearly beyond redemption. Peloroun and Orraen saw this, and they have given us the chance to save ourselves.”
Saetor snorted. “Shaeveran ‘weakened’ us? By saving us in the battle at the Escarpment? By providing us with the Winter Tree, the only protection we have against the Wraiths and the sukrael?”
“Wrong!” Lotaern punctuated the word by slamming his palm flat against the table he had been provided as soon as the Evant had seen fit to regard the Order of Aielan as a proper House. He surged to his feet and stepped out onto the rounded floor at the center of the tiers of steps that encircled the chamber, Vaeren a step behind. Nearly every seat in the hall was empty, including the three thrones on the raised dais where the Tamaell would normally sit as he presided over the meeting. Only five of the desks were occupied by lords and their minimal retinues today, a sixth by Lotaern and his own escort of acolytes and members of the Flame. But Lotaern shoved the emptiness of the chamber aside and disregarded the visceral tension that roiled about the room. He focused on Saetor, Lord of House Uslaen, even as he addressed everyone present.
“Wrong,” he repeated, now two paces from Saetor, the lord’s Phalanx bristling behind him. “The Winter Tree is not the only protection we have against the Wraiths, against the darkness of the sukrael. That is a lie that Shaeveran made us all believe. He convinced Aeren, who convinced Thaedoren and Terroec. He convinced us all! At least, initially.”
“Because it worked,” Daesor countered mildly.
Lotaern shot the Lord of House Nuant a scathing look. “I never said it didn’t work. But it made us dependent on him, and it made us complacent. We were content to let the Winter Tree protect us, even though we were never given a choice in accepting it. Shaeveran brought it to us and before we could decide as to whether we wished to take it, he thrust it into the ground in our central marketplace and its power was thrust upon us. It towers over us even now, looming over Caercaern, a constant reminder of our dependence on a human.” Daesor frowned in thought and Lotaern returned his gaze to Saetor. He knew Uslaen’s lord would be the most resistant; he was certain Daesor already agreed with him.
“Even I was relieved when the attacks by the sukrael stopped. The Order of Aielan couldn’t halt them then, I admit. We were being overwhelmed. But I never trusted Shaeveran, or the Winter Tree. According to the Scripts, the Order of Aielan had protected the Alvritshai from the sukrael in the past and I was determined to find a way for Her fire to protect us now.”
“And have you done it? Have you found a way to protect us?” Saetor asked.
“I’ve done more. I’ve found a way kill them.”
A few note-takers gasped, but none of the lords nor their guards reacted. Lotaern kept his eyes on Saetor and, surreptitiously, Daesor. Peloroun and Orraen already knew of his plans, and the only remaining lord, Houdyll of Redlien, was weak and easily influence; he would follow whomever he felt was the strongest.
And yet it was Houdyll who broke the tableau by clearing his throat nervously. “You say you can protect us, but does it matter? We have the Winter Tree. We don’t need protection.”
“And even if we did, was it necessary to stage a coup, to kill Lords Terroec, Aeren, and Tamaell Thaedoren?” Saetor added. “Why didn’t you bring this news before the Evant?”
“Would you have listened? Would you have even had the chance? From what I’ve observed in the Evant over the past few decades, Thaedoren would never have allowed it.”
“You never gave him the chance.”
“Do you truly believe he would have allowed me to speak? You forget the hold that Shaeveran and Aeren had over him already.”
A seething silence settled over the room, broken by Peloroun. “Tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“Tell them why we need protection from the sukrael and the Wraiths. Why we need to halt this petty bickering and choose a new Tamaell, one that can bring the Alvritshai people together in what may be their greatest time of need.”
Lotaern drew in a harsh breath through his nose, released it in a huff. He scanned the hall, catching Peloroun’s gaze, Orraen’s, who dropped his eyes, then Vaeren’s, the caitan who served as his Protector and led the Order of the Flame.
“What Lord Peloroun speaks of, the real reason he and Lord Orraen rose against House Resue, Rhyssal, and Baene and killed their lords, is because one of the Seasonal Trees—the Autumn Tree—has failed.”
The room was utterly silent, shocked into incomprehension. The realization of what he had said dawned on the lords’ faces first, their retinues only a moment behind.
Saetor reacted first. He closed the distance between them—two short steps—and grabbed a handful of Lotaern’s shirt in his, jerking him forward. “What do you mean it has failed? How do you know this? How is this possible?”
Before Lotaern could respond, the room exploded as everyone began to demand answers at once. Phalanx closed in on their charges. Vaeren and the other Flame and Lord Saetor’s Phalanx faced off, each tight behind their own charge, bodies bristling. Lotaern let the wave of fear and panic wash over him, never taking his eyes from Saetor’s face as the lord glared at him. Lotaern gloated for a moment, until he realized that unlike everyone else in the room, Saetor was not afraid. No.
He was merely angry.
“How long have you known?” Lord Saetor demanded. “How long have you planned this? Don’t claim it was Peloroun and Orraen—or even his sister, Reanne. I know better. I see the snake in the grass.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Saetor had pulled his shirt so tight it constricted his chest, but he refused to let the lord see that in his face or hear it in the tenor of his voice. He reached up and clasped Saetor’s hand about the wrist. “I am the only one who can save us now.”
Saetor released him and stepped back. The lord’s hand fell to his cattan. His Phalanx tensed.
But then Houdyll’s voice broke over the hall. “What of the Winter Tree? If the Autumn Tree has failed, what of the Winter Tree?”
Everyone turned toward the Chosen.
Lotaern held Saetor’s gaze, willing him to draw his blade. It would ruin him; Houdyll and Daesor would turn on him in an instant. But Saetor’s grip on the hilt relaxed.
Lotaern broke away, faced Houdyll. “With the loss of the Autumn Tree, the Winter Tree is weakened, but it holds. I verified this myself.”
“How?” Saetor asked.
“I touched the Tree. I communed with it.”
“No, I meant, how do you know the Autumn Tree has failed? We have had no word from the human Provinces, no message from their king. Nor have we heard from the dwarren. Unless you’ve intercepted those messages yourself.”
If Saetor had hoped Lotaern would stumble, he would be disappointed. “The wardens of the Tree informed me. They felt its loss through the connection that lies between all of the Seasonal Trees. I know of no messages sent by the human Provinces or the dwarren clans.”
“And when did the wardens inform you of this devastating news?”
Lotaern hesitated, realizing what Saetor must already know. “Two weeks before the intended closing session of the Evant.”
Saetor did not need to point out that the coup was staged that night; Houdyll sucked in a sharp breath.
Peloroun stepped forcefully into the silence, drawing everyone’s attention to himself. “What matters is that the Winter Tree holds and that our Chosen and the rest of his Order of the Flame can protect us from the Wraiths and the sukrael if—no, when—it does fail. We must prepare ourselves. And the first order of business now that the city has settled down is to vote one of the surviving members of the Evant as Tamaell and raise new Houses if we so desire.”
“And who would you suggest we raise as the new Tamaell?” Lord Daesor asked dryly.
“Myself, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I am the most powerful lord of the Evant remaining.”
“How convenient.”
Peloroun bristled, so Lotaern interrupted. “Would you deny that he is the eldest left, the most experienced? If we are to face the Wraiths and the sukrael, it would be best if we had someone who has dealt with them since they first became a problem. Peloroun was alive and lord of House Ionaen at the time of the Escarpment. No one else here can claim as much.”
“Agreed,” Daesor muttered. “Yet I would argue, if we are to face the Wraiths and the sukrael again, that we should have a Tamaell who is experienced in fighting them. None of us dealt with them as much as Lord Saetor. His House was the one attacked most frequently. He knows how destructive they can be. And he was trained to be a caitan in the Phalanx. He understands the strategy of warfare better than most of us here.”
“He has a point,” Houdyll said, then flinched when he caught Peloroun’s look.
The Ionaen House lord turned that same look on Lotaern. Neither of them had expected resistance. Peloroun was the obvious choice to replace Thaedoren. If Daesor and Saetor formed an alliance against them, if they convinced Houdyll to back them...
The Evant would be at a stalemate, one that they could not afford.
“Does Lord Saetor even wish to become Tamaell?” Peloroun asked.
The hall fell deathly silent, Saetor scanning the rest of the lords. “If it is the Evant’s wish.”
Lotaern nearly cursed as a wave of rustling cloth and muffled gasps swept the hall. Peloroun and Orraen made their way to Lotaern’s side, their escorts following, while Saetor stepped closer to Daesor, leaning forward to speak to him in a low murmur.
“It will come down to Houdyll,” Peloroun said immediately, his voice low.
All three of them watched the lord of Redlien as he retreated back to his own desk. His caitan spoke to him briefly and he nodded, but his hands twisted in the folds of his sleeves.
Peloroun’s mouth curled in disdain. “A shame. His father led the House with strength and nobility.”
“Even if Jydell didn’t always agree with you?” Orraen asked.
“My hatred of Jydell did not taint my respect.”
“The question remains,” Lotaern said, before the two could begin sniping at each other in earnest, “will Houdyll vote for you or Saetor?”
Peloroun motioned one of his pages forward. Snatching a piece of paper from Lotaern’s desk, he scratched out a hasty note, folded, and sealed it. The runner scrambled across the room. Saetor and Deasor watched silently, Daesor already reaching for his own paper and quill.
But Peloroun straightened. “He will vote for me. Call for the vote.”
“How can you be so—”
Peloroun cut Orraen off with a look. “Call for the vote.”
Lotaern stepped forward. With no Tamaell to end the discussion and call the Evant to order, he took the duty upon himself. Daesor was still frantically folding his own note, handing it to his page without even sealing it, when Lotaern cleared his throat.
“In the absence of the Tamaell, and as the Chosen of the Order of Aielan, I call for the remaining lords of the Evant to vote for the Tamaell’s replacement.” Daesor’s page handed the note to Houdyll, who read it, lips pressing into a thin line. Lotaern ignored him. “I believe everyone’s vote is obvious, except for Lord Houdyll.” He waited for acknowledging nods from Saetor and Daesor on one side, and Peloroun and Orraen on the other, then turned on Houdyll. “I cast my vote for Peloroun. What say you, Lord Houdyll? Who do you choose as Tamaell of the Alvritshai people?”
* * *
“How did you know he would vote for you?” Lotaern asked.
“Because Houdyll was less than discreet in his youth, much to his father’s distress.”
“You mean—”
“He bedded every servant who ever entered his rooms.”
He and Peloroun stood outside the gates of the Winter Tree’s garden, waiting for the wardens to admit them to the grounds. They had met inside the gardens a few times in the past, but always in secret. Such secrecy was no longer necessary. As the door creaked open and a hooded warden motioned them inside, bells began to sound, starting near the Hall of the Evant and spreading outwards, announcing the selection of a new Tamaell. Somehow, the sound made what they had done more final than anything he’d experienced so far, including seeing the bodies of the fallen in the halls of the Tamaell’s House and the pillars of black smoke from the pyres.
“Such actions, no matter how dishonorable to the House or his father, are hardly unheard of in Lords Presumptive. I fail to see—”
“I have, within my care, one of the unfortunate results from one of those liaisons.”
Peloroun said it softly, but the undercurrent of malice set Lotaern’s teeth on edge. He couldn’t help the tight frown of disapproval—he was the Chosen of Aielan after all. Threatening one of Houdyll’s bastard children was not something Lotaern would have condoned if he’d known ahead of time. But he had to admit that revealing Houdyll’s indiscretion would not have brought enough shame to himself or his House to have swayed him at the Evant. It would have been devastating if it became public knowledge, but it would not have destroyed him. And such a tactic would have taken time to have any real effect.
