Breath of Heaven, page 63
“Corim,” was all she said.
“He was on the walls,” Jayson said unnecessarily; Ara already knew that. “We’ll find him.” He had to have survived. Jayson wasn’t certain he could handle it if Corim were dead.
A moment later, they passed through the secondary gates and into the inner city.
* * *
Thaedoren stood silently as the wall of white fire—could it be Aielan’s Light?—faded into the horizon. He gripped the hilt of his cattan in a death grip, even though he’d already verified that the Wraith’s army on the field had vanished. Daedelan had already begun organizing the scattered Alvritshai forces. Men were checking those fallen on the field, tagging the wounded, dealing with those who were not yet dead but would not survive their wounds, and taking stock of what remained of their forces. The reserve forces, including his mother Moiran, were already spreading out across the field, tending those wounded. The plains were riddled with calls and commands, sobs and prayers, moans and a few dragging screams. A few of the Alvritshai stood as Thaedoren did, transfixed by the fire as it grew further and further distant.
“Tamaell?”
Thaedoren turned at Navaen’s voice. “What is it?”
The White Phalanx guardsman nodded toward the southwest. “It appears that the Provincial King is preparing to head this way.”
Thaedoren lowered his cattan and forced his clenched fingers to relax. “Prepare a small group. We’ll meet him halfway.”
“Most of our horses were spooked and ran. Or are dead.”
“Do what you can. We’ll walk there if we have to.”
Navaen nodded and began pulling Phalanx to his side to form an escort.
Thaedoren noticed his mother headed in his direction, her hair wild, her clothes stained with blood, although she still bore herself with the regal air of the Tamaea, picking her way through the litter of bodies. So many dead. All of the colors of the Houses mixed together with the bodies of the Wraith army. Interspersed among them all, the hovering, stilled shadows of the sukrael, burning white lights at each of their hearts, so intense they were hard to look at. A few surviving Faelehgre flitted about the battlefield, hovering over bodies, flashing and pulsing. It took him a moment, but he suddenly realized they were searching through the dead as well, looking for survivors.
“Navaen,” he said, as his mother reached them. He motioned toward the flickering lights that had saved him from the cold death of the sukrael during the battle. “Send word to Daedelan that the Faelehgre are helping in the search for the living. They’re trying to catch our attention.”
Navaen’s eyes widened in surprise, but he sent a runner immediately.
“Good. You noticed,” Moiran said, coming to a halt a few paces away.
They assessed each other. His mother looked worn and haggard, strained. She raised a hand and tried to pull some of her loose hair back into place.
He felt the same, his body trembling slightly. The intensity of the fighting, the constant battle that had lasted all morning and into the afternoon—all of that built up adrenalin had died. He wanted to pull his mother into an embrace, wanted to collapse where he stood, wanted to simply curl in upon himself and scream or weep and allow the emotions of the last few days—no, the last several months—to drain away and leave him empty.
But he was the Tamaell.
He straightened, and saw the look of understanding in his mother’s eyes.
“I think you can put that away,” she said.
He glanced down, then hefted the cattan, its blade slicked with the blood. “I suppose so.” But instead of sheathing it, he handed it off to one of the numerous Phalanx who’d fallen into place around him and asked him to clean it.
Then he turned back to his mother. “We’re preparing to meet with the Provinces’ King. I’d like you to join us.”
“Very well. Thaedoren…the white fire...”
“Aielan’s Light, you mean?” But he left a thread of doubt in his voice.
Moiran pursed her lips. “I suppose that’s how the Order of Aielan will interpret it. And perhaps that is true. But…did you sense anything else when its flames washed over you? Did you sense…another presence?”
Thaedoren thought back to that moment when the flames touched him, to when they consumed him, before passing on and leaving him behind. He sifted through those sensations—
And realized he had sensed someone else in the flames. Beneath the all-encompassing judgmental presence that he associated with Aielan, there had been something even more familiar, as if someone were standing behind and to one side.
“Shaeveran.”
Moiran closed her eyes and bowed her head before nodding. “I thought so as well. It would appear we owe him another debt.”
“Owe who a debt?”
Both turned at Lord Saetor’s voice. Behind him stood Fedaureon and Caeden, both lords worn and ragged, with numerous bloody gashes and nicks across their faces, arms, and legs, although nothing that required immediate attention.
The young lord of House Rhyssal bowed toward Thaedoren, then moved to embrace their mother, against all Alvritshai tradition. Thaedoren couldn’t help but smile, although he knew the expression was weary—both because he was tired and because he could not do what the much younger Fedaureon could.
“We owe Shaeveran a debt,” he said, in answer to Saetor’s question. “Both Lady Moiran and I believe that the white fire was sent or guided by Colin Harten.”
“He wields such power?” Caeden asked in surprise.
“Apparently, he does.”
“Why did he not do this sooner?” Saetor asked. “Think of the lives he could have saved here. Or at Caercaern!”
“I would presume,” Moiran interrupted, “that he used this power as soon as he possibly could. He has always been forthright with the Alvritshai—”
“With Lord Aeren, you mean.”
“With Lord Aeren in particular, yes, but with Thaedoren and most of the Evant as well. He never mentioned the white fire to any of us before he left. He may not have known about it, or whether it would work. When he left Rhyssal, when we saw him last, he was headed toward the east searching for a disturbance among the sarenavriell, something more powerful than anything he’d seen before. Perhaps this is what he discovered.”
Saetor’s protest died, but Thaedoren could see that his anger had not, so he added, “We aren’t even certain Shaeveran had anything to do with it. It’s mere supposition at this point. We should reserve judgment until we know the truth. But I, for one, am glad the white fire—or Aielan’s Light—came when it did.”
At the emphasis on the possibility that it was a work of Aielan, Saetor’s anger faltered.
“Tamaell,” Navaen said to one side. “The dwarren have sent a party as well. If we wish to meet with them, we should leave now.”
“Lord Saetor, begin organizing pyres with the Order of Aielan. We’ll need to send all of those we can find into Aielan’s Light as soon as possible. Daedelan will be able to provide you with Phalanx. Lords Fedaureon and Caeden will help. I’ll speak with the king and the dwarren.”
“And then?” Saetor asked.
“And then we will convene a meeting of the Evant, as we have always done.”
Saetor bowed his head in approval, then gestured to both Fedaureon and Caeden.
Thaedoren watched them retreat, already conferring with each other.
“As far as we know, only five of the Houses have lords at the moment,” Moiran said. “That’s not much of an Evant.”
“Four. Lord Renaerd was killed during the battle.”
“What will you do with House Baene then? And what of the other Houses—Ionaen, Licaeta, Redlien, and Nuant? They betrayed you, and the Alvritshai. And what of the Order of Aielan?”
“Their lords betrayed me, not their people. But we will deal with them in time. House Baene…I believe Renaerd had another, younger brother?”
“Haemae, yes.”
“If he still lives when we return, he will ascend. As for the Order of Aielan…they will have to elect a new Chosen.”
“This would be an opportunity to rescind the Order’s standing as the equivalent of a House within the Evant.”
He met his mother’s gaze. “Do you think that is wise at this time, after we have all passed through the Fires of Aielan? Our people will want answers, and like Saetor, I do not think they will want to believe that they were saved by a human tainted by the sarenavriell, no matter how much that may be true. They will turn to the Order for answers instead. It cannot be coincidence that the fires that swept over us and cleansed the earth of the sukrael and the Wraiths, and those that followed them, were white, just like Aielan’s Light.”
Moiran hesitated, then sighed. “No, you are right. This is not the time.”
Thaedoren turned his attention to the battlefield as Navaen—waiting patiently to one side with saddled horses—stepped forward. He mounted, noting the dwarren were skirting the fissure that split the plains on their gaezel, an elder shaman and a much younger Rider at the forefront, an escort of twenty mixed Riders and shamans behind them. The human king and his entourage were already in place at a central point, near where the earth had exploded and buried Khalaek. He doubted the king knew the turbulent emotions that any association with the Wraith would engender in Thaedoren, so the Tamaell attempted to shove those aside. Between the Alvritshai forces and the king’s, GreatLord Went had sent out his own group, containing a mere four Legion as escort, bringing the entire human contingent to near thirty.
He glanced back at the Alvritshai behind him, noted Moiran was ready, and counted fifteen Phalanx. Navaen had chosen two or three from each of the surviving Houses on the field, including Baene. He nodded toward his guardsman in approval, then nudged his horse into motion. The animal was still skittish, so he had to keep tight hold on the reins as they picked their way down through the fallen, crows and other carrion birds already beginning to settle in and feast. But within a hundred paces, the majority of the dead fell behind as they passed beyond what had been the front line.
Thaedoren picked up the pace, scanning the city beyond. A wide plume of smoke still roiled from the lower ward, mostly to the south now, the black scar of the raging fire’s path now visible. Only husks of stone buildings remained, everything else reduced to char, the cracked outer walls blackened with soot. But the secondary walls remained, and the inner city appeared untouched. But it was too distant to pick out details. He couldn’t tell if there were any survivors in the outer ward at all. He doubted anyone had survived the blaze, but there were parts of Temeritt still standing in the outer ward to the north of the gates.
As they neared where the human king, dwarren, and GreatLord Went had converged, a horn cry rose from the Provincial army, sounding hollow and forlorn on the plains. At its signal, Thaedoren suddenly realized how quiet the plains were, as if the world were still stunned by the events that had played out here. A wind blew out of the northeast, pushing southwest—the only thing that had saved Temeritt from the inferno. It flapped in the banners that Navaen had somehow resurrected from the field, the white and red of House Resue stained with blood and dirt, a tear running up its left side. The eagle motif was barely discernible. All of the tabards worn by the Legion were in worse shape.
But as they drew to a halt, the three groups—human, dwarren, and Alvritshai—twenty paces apart, he realized that the dwarren and the humans were in the same shape. King Justinian sat astride his horse, one arm bandaged and in a sling, a vicious cut running down one side of his young face. Thaedoren knew he was twelve—barely a boy by Alvritshai standards—yet he held himself with the stature of someone much older. A Legion commander, also bandaged from various wounds, sat a pace behind in support, others ranged around them, including GreatLord Went, whose forces had merged with the king’s.
He shifted his attention to the dwarren, noted with surprise that the elderly shaman had pushed his gaezel out in front of the Rider Thaedoren assumed was the Cochen, as if he, their Archon, were the dwarren leader. Something had shifted within the dwarren ranks since he’d last met with them years before. They’d even foregone the usual display and blessings before the meeting, although a few of the shamans were murmuring beneath their breaths and waving their scepters. He caught one scattering grain upon the earth.
King Justinian broke the silence first. “Did one of you call down the White Fire?”
Thaedoren traded a glance with the dwarren Archon. “It did not come from the Alvritshai.”
The Archon raised a hand and combed his fingers through the braids and beads of his beard. “Nor the dwarren. We only used the Land to defend ourselves from the elloktu.”
All three groups shifted and fidgeted in unease at this news.
Thaedoren contemplated mentioning Shaeveran, but the Cochen of the dwarren said something to the Archon too low for Thaedoren to hear.
“My Rider believes I should mention that we sensed…a presence within the fire, someone we are familiar with. A human we call the Shadowed One, although he is known by many other names, including Colin Harten. He has long been a friend of the dwarren. He came to see us before the Wraith army attacked our lands. He warned us of their approach, before heading off into the wastelands to the east, the direction the fire came from. We believe he sent the fire, with Ilacqua’s blessing, and that of the Four Rivers.”
“We know of Colin Harten,” Thaedoren added. “We call him Shaeveran. I sensed him within the flames as well.”
King Justinian’s gaze wavered back and forth between them both. “This is the same Colin Harten who gave us the Seasonal Trees, nearly a hundred years ago? To protect us from…from these Wraiths and the other creatures?”
“Yes.”
Justinian focused on him. “Then what happened? Why did they fail? How did it come to this?”
Thaedoren shook his head, but Moiran nudged her horse a few paces forward and answered for him. “Shaeveran discovered that the Wraiths were tampering with the sarenavriell, what you call Wells. He said they’d discovered a powerful Well outside the reach of the Seasonal Trees. He didn’t know what their intent was, but he intended to find out. I think they used this new power to destroy the Trees. And I think Shaeveran used it to stop them.”
“But we won’t know the truth until Shaeveran returns,” Thaedoren added.
“If he returns,” Justinian’s commander muttered, loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Commander Roland?” Justinian asked, a hint of reprimand beneath the question.
“It would appear that Colin Harten is more forthcoming with the dwarren and the Alvritshai than he is with his own race,” Roland said.
Thaedoren let an awkward silence fall, knew that his mother was straining to contain herself.
Thankfully, a sudden horn cry sounded from the direction of Temeritt—a long blast followed by two short and two long—an answer to the previous call from the field Thaedoren assumed. All of the humans first tensed, then relaxed as the horns faded.
“GreatLord Kobel reports that Temeritt is safe. We have much to discuss. I suggest we move our armies closer to the city and reconvene in the palace. I’m certain GreatLord Kobel will provide rooms for all of us and any additional escort you’d like to take with you. We can wait to discuss the Accord and what has happened until we’ve all had a chance to rest and relax—”
“And wash,” someone grumbled softly.
“And wash, yes,” Justinian repeated. He smiled, but there was strain around his eyes. For the first time, Thaedoren caught a glimpse of the young, uncertain boy beneath the stolid exterior—a boy as worn and tired as the rest of them, barely holding himself upright, much less retaining his hold on formality.
Thaedoren stepped in. “I agree. We should see to our own people now. I know our Order of Aielan will be busy sending the fallen into Her Light most of the night. Should we meet again tomorrow, at midday?”
“That is acceptable,” the Archon said. “The dwarren also have many rituals to perform, just as we have much news to report of dwarren lands. We have suffered severely from the elloktu army’s attacks.”
“The Alvritshai, as well. Until tomorrow then.”
Thaedoren nodded to both of them, the dwarren already pulling their gaezel around. As he turned, Justinian’s face blanched and he began to fall from his saddle. But his commander caught and steadied him, moving in close so his actions weren’t so obvious. The young king recovered before he was surrounded and his entourage headed back toward its camp.
“He’s so young,” Moiran said.
“But he handled himself well. And it would appear that he has a Protector in Commander Roland.”
“I agree.”
“Did you notice the change in the dwarren leadership? Their Archon appeared to have higher standing than their Cochen.”
“An interesting development. I look forward to hearing what has happened this past year in other parts of Wrath Suvane. The world has certainly Turned, as the dwarren would say. Nothing is as it was before.”
“No one is as they were before either.”
Moiran glanced at him sharply. Then she looked away. “No, I suppose not. Who do you wish to take with you into the city?”
“I’ll leave Caeden, Fedaureon, and Daedelan in charge of the army. You and Saetor will accompany me, along with your escorts.”
Ahead, a thin column of gray smoke began to rise into the sky from the center of the Alvritshai lines, a sign that the first funeral pyre had been lit. Soon the smoke would turn black as the bodies began to burn, their mortal remains released into Aielan’s arms.
“So much death.”
Moiran said nothing, but she lowered her head. The escort remained quiet, only the creak of leather, the clank of armor, the clop of shod feet on turned soil, and the huff or snort of one of the horses sullying the silence.
