Breath of Heaven, page 32
The Wraith could not be allowed to escape. Lotaern had plans for him.
The prisoner was on his knees, bent forward, back hunched, head lowered. His long black hair covered his face, hanging loosely. Tension lined his shoulders, evidence that he was still fighting the leash Lotaern and the Flame had placed on him, even after a week of captivity. He would have thought the Wraith would have given up by now, but then the Wraiths were used to long lives, according to what Shaeveran had said. Some of them had existed for over a hundred years, trapped in Ostraell’s forests. A week would be nothing to them.
The Wraith, Maenaed, raised his head at the sound of Lotaern brushing through the tent’s partition. He leaned back as one of the Flame reached for a wooden chair, placing it four paces from where Maenaed knelt. The Wraith’s hands were unbound, his feet as well, but Lotaern knew that with the collar of light around his neck he could barely move. Maenaed had tested the limits of the leash during the first few days. Each morning, before Peloroun’s army stirred and prepared for the march, Lotaern came to this tent and sat in this chair. He hoped to learn something from Maenaed, about the Wraiths’ plans, about the army that trailed behind them. Something that could be used to halt their attack on Caercaern.
But he was running out of time.
“Maenaed.”
The Wraith’s eyes narrowed with hatred; a patient hatred, Lotaern thought. He leaned back, shoulders no longer hunched, back straight. The blackness beneath his skin came into stark relief in the lantern light, and once again Lotaern suppressed a shudder at the sign of the sarenavriell’s taint. The ragged scar from his banishment appeared particularly livid.
“Chosen.” The muscles of his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth, then he visibly relaxed, nearly smiled.
“Why do you smile?”
“Because it is almost done. The Wraith army is nearly here. Once they attack, once they reach your guardians,” he glanced toward the four who held him, “then I will be free. And you…you will die.”
The Wraith’s soft, slightly accented words sent a shiver through Lotaern’s skin. But Maenaed had been offering up such cold threats for the last seven mornings and Lotaern was unwilling to let the Wraith know how much they unsettled him. Everything about this…creature…unsettled him. The air of superiority, the arrogance, the frigidness that permeated the air around him, not to mention the power he knew the once-Alvritshai wielded. The image of him blurring into and out of existence in the field where they had captured him still haunted Lotaern’s sleep. He knew Shaeveran had the same powers, but Colin never flaunted them.
Lotaern had to give the tainted human a certain amount of credit for that, even if he didn’t trust him. Shaeveran retained more of his humanity than Maenaed did, but Lotaern didn’t know how long that would remain true. At some point, the sarenavriell would turn him, as it had Walter, Maenaed, and all of the others.
He focused on Maenaed’s eyes. “Your army is moving slowly. They’re two days behind us, and we are only a day’s march from the walls of Caercaern. We will reach it today. And the Winter Tree is still alive.”
“Moving slowly yes, but not because of the Winter Tree. Do you not hear the screams of the Alvritshai you’ve left behind? Does Aielan not trouble your sleep with their terror, their tears? All of those people you’ve abandoned in the villages and towns in the outer lands. They are all dying beneath the Wraith army’s rage.”
Lotaern shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They were not abandoned. The acolytes and the members of the Flame told them to flee to Caercaern, to its walls.”
Maenaed laughed, a soft, low, knowing sound. “And you expected them to listen? They are simple people, Chosen, and you ask them to leave their homes, their lands, everything they have worked for their entire lives for the uncertainty of Aielan’s favor?”
“The Order of the Flame will protect them.”
“But only if they leave everything behind and travel to Caercaern. I think you’ll be surprised at how few of them have enough faith to do so at your word.”
“At Aielan’s word. They should have more faith.”
“Never fear. Their faith is being tested. Even now, most of them have been given to Aielan’s Light.”
Lotaern’s stomach turned and he closed his eyes, head slightly bowed. He had known there was risk. That’s why he’d sent the Order of the Flame out into the House lands earlier, why he’d attempted to spark true belief in the common people before they reached this point. He’d known it would undermine the lords’ authority, had even ordered the members in particular Houses to use their positions to do just that; he needed to maintain his power within the Evant after all. But he hadn’t expected the lords to protest so vigorously.
Or rather, he hadn’t expected Lord Aeren to gather so much support, so quickly.
He shook his head, raised it again, eyes open. “You seek to distract me. Tell me of the army that approaches. Who leads it? What creatures is it composed of? How many are there and what is their plan?”
Maenaed’s cold enjoyment faded into boredom. “Their plan is to destroy you.”
Lotaern was surprised. This was the most significant response he’d gotten from the Wraith since his capture.
“How? How do they intend to destroy us? How do they intend to break Caercaern’s walls? How do they intend to get close enough with the Winter Tree still alive?”
“The Winter Tree is weakened.” Maenaed’s voice was bland, his eyes drifting from Lotaern’s. “The Summer Tree is dead. Did you not feel it? Perhaps you were too enthralled with collaring me to notice.”
Lotaern’s eyes widened, even as the members of the Flame—silent and inconspicuous until now—fidgeted, trading glances. Lotaern had felt the Autumn Tree die, but the Summer Tree?
Reaching out, he tried to sense the Winter Tree’s protection. He knew it was dying, but he had been distracted since he last touched it.
Now, he couldn’t sense it at all, even straining to the limits of his power.
But the Summer Tree was protected.
“You lie. The Summer Tree is protected by the dwarren.”
Maenaed’s gaze returned to Lotaern. “It was.”
Lotaern didn’t want to believe it, but Maenaed was so certain. If the Summer Tree had died, the Winter Tree would be weakened even further. He wasn’t certain it could survive such a blow. He had expected the Summer Tree to be the last to fall. It was the most heavily guarded, being underground and protected by the dwarren, who were near fanatics when it came to preserving the Land. But if the dwarren had failed...
What did that mean for the dwarren? Did they still live?
He would have to check on the Winter Tree the moment they returned to Caercaern, verify that the Summer Tree was dead, that the Winter Tree still provided some protection. And he would have to inform Peloroun.
He rose.
“Leaving so soon? You haven’t even begun to ask your usual annoying questions. I must admit, though, I will miss our little talks. They were highly entertaining.”
Lotaern strode from the room, barely noticing the two guardsmen stationed in the outer room.
He found Peloroun waiting for him outside the tent.
“Good. I need to speak to you.”
“Is your little morning ritual done?” Peloroun asked. “I’d hoped to get the army marching to Caercaern a little early today.”
“Yes, yes, we can leave as soon as the army is ready.”
Peloroun hesitated at Lotaern’s dismissive tone, then ordered two of his accompanying Phalanx—guardsmen Lotaern hadn’t even noticed—to break camp immediately.
“I must say I never understood what you hoped to gain from talking to him. He obviously wasn’t going to provide us any meaningful information.”
“You made your thoughts on that abundantly clear after the first day.” Lotaern began moving toward his own tent. “But it has borne fruit.”
Peloroun’s lips thinned. “Has it now.”
“He claims the Summer Tree is dead.”
“And you believe him?”
“I don’t know if I believe him. But if you recall, the scouts reported a sudden increase in the Wraith army’s pace just after we captured Maenaed.”
“They were moving at a slow but steady pace before that, as well as a tight group. Then, suddenly, they spread out and their pace quickened. It was as if they had been unleashed.”
“That’s when the Summer Tree must have died. It would have been a blow to the Winter Tree’s strength.”
“And you didn’t sense this?”
Lotaern bristled at Peloroun’s reproving tone. “I was dealing with Maenaed at the time.”
Peloroun didn’t respond. “What else?”
“I can’t sense the Winter Tree any longer. And this close to Caercaern, I should.”
They continued on in silence, Peloroun’s brow creased in thought. Finally, he asked, “How does this affect our plans?”
“It doesn’t. Not to a great extent, at least. The Winter Tree was never part of the final defense. It was merely there to hold the Wraiths and the majority of the creatures in their army at bay for as long as possible. If it has weakened, or even died, then we may have to hasten our timeline, nothing more.
“What’s more important is the fact that the dwarren protected the Summer Tree. It was planted underground, at their most sacred and centralized location. If the Summer Tree has indeed fallen, then the dwarren must have been decimated, if not completely destroyed. Any hope of calling on them for aid has died with the Summer Tree.”
Peloroun snorted in contempt. “I never intended to call on the dwarren for aid, nor the humans. If you recall, I never agreed with Shaeveran, Lord Aeren, or the Accord, even with the threat of the Wraiths. They killed both of my sons, when all they were doing was protecting Ionaen House lands. The dwarren can fend for themselves, and we will protect our own. Let the dwarren die.”
He halted abruptly. “We’ll reach Caercaern today. As soon as we enter the lower tier gates, have the Order of the Flame and the acolytes within the Order of Aielan prepare their defenses of the wall. I’ll take care of the Phalanx of the combined Houses. We need to be ready for the Wraith army, especially if they’ll be arriving sooner than expected.”
Lotaern ground his teeth at the tone of command in Peloroun’s voice, but he said, “The warriors of the Flame will be ready.”
“Make certain of it.”
Peloroun spun and stalked off, his remaining escort falling into place to either side. Lotaern watched his retreat.
The Flame would be ready.
But he would check on the health of the Winter Tree first.
* * *
“It’s the same as the last,” Renaerd muttered, then spun his horse around and fell back among his own House Phalanx.
Fedaureon forced himself not to say anything. Daevon shifted into Renaerd’s vacated position.
“Doesn’t Renaerd feel anything?” Fedaureon kept his voice low enough only Daevon, and Mattalaen on his other side, could hear. “He acts as if they died simply to inconvenience him.”
“That’s probably exactly what he thinks,” Mattalaen said. “But calling him out for it wouldn’t improve our situation at all. The more villages and towns I see razed to the ground like this,” he motioned toward the smoking ruins in the small valley stretching out before them, “the more I realize we need the Phalanx that follows his lead. Even if he is an arrogant, self-absorbed bastard.”
Fedaureon had never heard Mattalaen be so blunt before. Renaerd must be grating on his caitan worse than he thought.
Daevon glared in reproach. “We need his men, yes. Which means none of us should be voicing such thoughts, especially where someone may overhear.”
“Always the teacher, eh, Protector?” But Mattalaen shook his head. “But he’s right, Lord Presumptive. I spoke impulsively.” He waved toward the destroyed village. “What are your orders?”
“Same as for the last. Search for survivors, potential supplies, and then we’ll continue on.” His eyes fell on the storm gathering over the mountains, the leading edge of the clouds already beginning to streak toward them. “We still have a few hours left before dark, even with the storm approaching.”
Mattalaen turned away to pass on the orders.
Fedaureon asked, “How far behind them are we now?”
“I’ll need to take a closer look, but the ruins are still smoking. I’d guess at most a day.”
“We’re only three days from Caercaern.”
Daevon didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. They weren’t going to find any protection from the walls of Caercaern.
But he hadn’t expected that anyway. Not from Lotaern, Peloroun, and Orraen, at least.
They’d spent the last week trailing in the Wraith army’s wake, each day edging closer to the army, forced to witness the destruction the army was wreaking on Ionaen House lands. Villages and towns had been burned to the ground. The dead lined the streets, caught in the act of fleeing. Even more bodies were found inside the husks of the ruins, women and children who’d hidden and died in the flames or where crushed when stone buildings collapsed. They’d found nearly no survivors. In the last town, a mother and her two young girls had been trapped in the root cellar beneath their home, the charred timbers of their house fallen across the doors. Two villages before that, a man had been mauled by one of the snake creatures, but had crawled into the stream and washed beneath the bridge, where one of the Rhyssal Phalanx heard his cries and found him clinging to the bridge’s supports. He’d reported that the army had come out of nowhere, attacked with no warning. He’d raced toward the village center, but the snake creatures had already overrun it. Before he could turn and flee, they’d fallen on him. He’d only escaped because the creature that had attacked him had been distracted by another man, hissing and striking the other man with its fangs. He’d crawled away in horror before the creature had disengaged, the man’s body already turning black from the venom. He was thankful he’d only been attacked with the creature’s claws.
“Any sign of any creatures other than what we’ve heard from the survivors we’ve found?”
“Besides the snake people, we’ve seen signs of the cat-like creatures the man from Ettaeren mentioned. There’s also something much larger in the army—nothing we’ve heard of or seen is strong enough to knock over some of the stone buildings we’ve passed.”
“Check the village below, see what you can find.”
A moment later, a shout rose from the rear of their army.
Fedaureon spun, his chest tightening as he saw those at the back of the long line of Phalanx from both Baene and Rhyssal drawing weapons and spinning to face back along the road they’d been following. They fell into defensive positions, the panicked outcry from the first men rippling backwards toward Fedaureon through the ranks.
“What in hells.” Fedaureon made to knee his horse down the line, but Daevon clamped a hand down hard on his arm, holding him back.
“Wait.”
Farther down the road, the front ranks of an army appeared.
Fedaureon shouted, “Mattalaen!” but his voice was drowned out as all along the line the caitans and Phalanx sprang into motion. The lord of Rhyssal caught sight of Mattalaen at the front of their column, expression perplexed, and he realized the caitan couldn’t see the approaching force; the road dipped down toward the village, the surrounding trees blocking his view. He shook off Daevon’s restraining hand. “We have to get to the rear of our army. Mattalaen can’t see what’s going on.”
“Lord Presumptive,” Daevon said, his voice calm. “Look.”
Fedaureon saw Renaerd, with an escort, emerging from the rear of the forces now arrayed in a defensive position toward the approaching army. He cursed beneath his breath. But he’d never make it in time, not with over half of the Rhyssal and Baene Phalanx between him and Renaerd.
Renaerd halted twenty paces beyond the end of the supporting Phalanx. At the far end of the road, still barely visible, the other army halted as well. Fedaureon found himself reevaluating Renaerd. He would never have expected the pompous lord to actually lead his Phalanx into battle, but Renaerd hadn’t hesitated to take charge.
“They aren’t attacking,” Daevon said.
“No.” The stalemate held. “Can you see who they are?”
“Not from this distance. But they’re mounted. And they’re carrying a banner.”
“What colors?”
“White and…red?”
Fedaureon sucked in a breath of hope, even as Renaerd nudged his horse forward. Someone broke from the other army to meet him.
“He didn’t send a proxy,” Daevon muttered, echoing Fedaureon’s own thought. Then the Protector added, “Mattalaen is looking for orders.”
“Tell him to hold position for now.”
Fedaureon remained focused on Renaerd. The lord was in deep conversation with the envoy from the other army, but it didn’t last long. The two broke apart, Renaerd riding back to his own Phalanx, the envoy heading back down the road.
A moment later, Renaerd’s escort signaled that all was well, even though the army had begun moving toward them again.
“It’s Resue,” Daevon said. “Tamaell Thaedoren.”
“Signal Mattalaen to continue on to the village. We’ll go to meet the Tamaell.”
Daevon ordered a runner to pass on the news as Fedaureon headed toward Renaerd, the Rhyssal and Baene Phalanx parting before him. Excitement radiated from the men, low conversations and barks of laughter erupting from them as Daevon rejoined him. Fedaureon felt the same tingling sensation in his own skin, but he kept his face neutral. He didn’t want Daevon, Mattalaen, or even Renaerd to see the hope that gnawed at his heart—hope that Thaedoren wasn’t alone, that his father had come with him. The only word they’d heard from Caercaern before he’d left was that Aeren had vanished along with Thaedoren. No one knew where they had gone.
