Breath of Heaven, page 64
He thought again of the White Fire that had washed over them. He had thought, when he saw the flames approaching, that Aielan had come to claim them all, that the world would end in a white, blazing inferno, as the ancient Scripts said it had once before. But instead of destroying them, Aielan’s Light had saved them. Inside of its fire, he had felt Aielan’s presence, had felt Her touch.
And now, as weariness came to claim him, as the horror and grief of all that he and the rest of the Alvritshai had suffered settled upon him, he reached for that touch and gathered it in, taking comfort from it. As he knew many would over the coming days.
“The world has changed.” He looked out toward the vastness of the plains, beyond the pyres, the still-burning city, beyond the charred remains of the Autumn Tree. “It has been reborn in the Fires of Aielan. We have been given another chance, another life. We need to make certain this new age is better than the old. We need to forge a new alliance with the dwarren and the humans. The Accord failed when we needed it most, because we did not believe in it, because we did not trust it. Without Shaeveran’s intervention, the battle against the Wraiths and their armies would have been lost, here, on the plains before Temeritt, because of that distrust.”
He said it softly, but with conviction, and no one contradicted him.
As they reached the edge of the Alvritshai forces, he straightened in his saddle. “It must never come to this again.”
26
Colin released time at the top of a knoll within sight of Temeritt to the northeast. He stumbled, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. The summoning of the White Fire had drained him, had left him conscious but helpless on the stone floor of the Source’s chamber, staring up at the sky and the stars through the shattered remains of the crystal ceiling. On the second day, he’d managed to crawl to the side of the chamber to get out of the merciless sunlight, harsh even with the leaves of the Spring Tree shading it out on one side. But then he’d collapsed and hadn’t stirred for yet another day. He’d been concerned the Haessari would find him—when he’d chosen who the White Fire would take, he’d left those who were in the Thalloran Wastes alone, trapping only those Haessari attacking Temeritt in the flames—but then he remembered what Walter had said. He was certain the White Fire had only heightened their belief that the gods resided in this chamber. They couldn’t have missed that the flames had originated there.
And they didn’t come. They weren’t waiting outside when he left either. They weren’t even within the ruined city as far as he could tell. They’d retreated back to their cliffside dwellings at the northern edge of the desert. He saw their fires winking in the darkness from the heights to the south as he departed. More fires than he’d seen before. He assumed they were performing rituals, praying to the gods for mercy, for enlightenment, for hope. He assumed many people would be turning to religion for solace after the passage of the White Fire.
They would need it. After what Walter had shown him in the waters of the Source, all of the races would be struggling for many years to come. Recovery would be hard, and terrible, and it would come at a great sacrifice.
Especially once the races realized what he had to ask of them in the aftermath of the fire.
On the knoll overlooking Temeritt, he turned to face the horizon to the east, where two brilliant white lights bloomed, like miniature sunrises, one a handspan farther north than the other. Much farther south, a third white dawn glowed. During the day they were barely discernible, but at night...
At night, all three shifted and glowed silver, as bright as the moon.
He returned his gaze to Temeritt. The palace gleamed at the top of the hill, the lake glistening as the wind coming from the west kicked up a few ripples on its surface. Thin gray smoke rose from the city in trails from cooking fires and hearths, much heavier, darker, thicker plumes rising from the plains farther west, where the main battle had been fought.
“Five days later and they’re still burning the dead.”
Reaching out, he seized time again, slowed it, and headed down the hillside toward the city. He needed to find the leaders of the three races. He needed to explain to them what had happened.
And what was required of them now.
* * *
“What about Andover?” Thaedoren asked. “Have we heard anything from them?”
Lord Kobel stood with effort after King Justinian acknowledged him with a nod. His leg was still bandaged heavily, but he refused to be left out of the proceedings. A healer sat directly behind him.
All three of the races were represented in the large hall, the Alvritshai seated along one side, dwarren across from them, and the Provinces between, opposite the massive double doors of the chamber. Each of the three leaders and one or two other representatives sat at a table at the forefront of each delegation, the rest of those assembled seated behind them at additional tables. Thaedoren’s mother sat to his right, Lord Saetor to his left. Members of the White Phalanx stood behind them.
“I spoke with Councilor Tyrik in Corsair through the Hand of Diermani last evening. He said the last ships to arrive from Andover came into port over a week ago. All of them claimed to have seen a fiery light and a great rumbling from the direction of Andover at the same time as we saw the lights flashing in the skies here. Those closest to Andover said that the seas churned and boiled, that smaller ships near them were capsized and lost. One of them attempted to return to port, but they couldn’t get close enough to even see land. The ocean was too rough. But they said the skies were filled with fiery, roiling clouds of ash and lightning, and the waters were choked with mud and debris and hundreds of bodies. The captains of the ships all believe that, for the moment, there’s little of Andover left. None of them were willing to return. It’s an arduous journey at the best of times. They’ve asked for sanctuary in Corsair, although they all have shipping companies to house and care for them in the Provinces. Those that survived the ocean surge, that is.” Kobel paused, then added, unnecessarily, “I don’t think Andover will be able to aid in our own recovery any time soon, Tamaell Thaedoren.”
He sat awkwardly as murmurs broke out around the room. Thaedoren stood before they could grow into full-fledged discussions.
“It would appear, then, that we’ll have to rely on ourselves in order to rebuild.”
“But the devastation!” GreatLord Berand from the Provinces said, rising to his feet. “The Provinces have been decimated! What the Wraith army didn’t destroy outright has been flooded by the ocean. The coastal cities are reeling. Most of the inland villages between the coast and Temeritt have been razed to the ground, including Borangst. Only Yhnar was spared the brunt of the attack, and—apologies to the late GreatLord Tarken Sohn—but Yhnar is a fledging Province at best. It controls less than half the people of Portstown, let alone my entire Province. How can Yhnar help recover from such a disaster? They won’t be able to shelter the masses of survivors, even with Temeritt’s help. And what about food? Can they feed those who flee to its walls? The obstacles to overcome are too great!”
There was no stopping the arguments that broke out at that point. Thaedoren remained standing, but GreatLord Berand settled back into his seat, arguing with those around him. The chaotic conversations raged on all sides, as those gathered allowed the strain of the last few months some release. They had spent three days organizing the pyres for the dead and leading groups into lower Temeritt to put out the sporadic fires after the main blaze had burnt itself out. King Justinian had declared a day of rest and celebration after that, even though the food supplies from the two arriving armies were dangerously low and there was still much work to be done. The streets of the upper wards had been tumultuous, crammed with all of the races mixed together. The celebration had spilled over into the next day, and Thaedoren was certain it was still going on in certain parts of Temeritt, but the lords and leaders had finally met and begun talking in earnest the day before. Yesterday had been spent entirely on recounting what had happened in all three lands over the course of the last few years. The missed opportunities, the mistakes, the disheartening losses, and a few triumphs—all told in bits and pieces over the course of hours. All three races had suffered dramatically.
But Thaedoren had found hope in the recounting. When the dwarren’s Sacred Waters were destroyed, their Archon, Quotl, hadn’t taken the dwarren who had survived and fled in order to preserve themselves. He had marched northwards, toward Alvritshai lands, to continue the fight there. Justinian and Roland may have dismissed the dwarren’s first envoy, but they had still taken the warning seriously enough to maneuver their Legion into position to march on Temeritt, and GreatLord Went had taken in the Alvritshai refugees after the fall of Caercaern.
And then there was the battle before Temeritt, where all three races had come together to defend the human Province against the Wraith’s main force.
It was clear the Wraiths had planned the attacks and divided their forces to keep the three races separated and unaware of what was happening elsewhere. None of them had had any substantial warning, except possibly the dwarren, who had kept vigilant even with the Summer Tree protecting them.
Now, the dwarren Archon stood…and waited, drawing on a thin pipe and blowing smoke out through his nose. Thaedoren caught a hint of the sickly sweet scent of the yetope from where he stood.
It took twenty minutes before those in the chamber began to notice the Archon. When the room had quieted down into soft mumbles, the scuff of feet against the flagstone floor, and the creaking of wooden chairs, he said simply, “The obstacles are not too great for the dwarren.”
The room exploded again, this time at the implication that the Alvritshai and humans were weaker than the dwarren. Thaedoren traded looks with Saetor and Moiran.
His mother leaned closer. “He shifted the tone of the hall from despair to determination. I can see why he became more than simply their Archon over the course of the war. I believe there is reason to hope after all.”
Thaedoren caught Quotl’s eye, then shifted to watch King Justinian. The human king sat in silence, eyebrows creased—in anger or confusion, Thaedoren couldn’t tell—but Commander Roland’s hand was resting on his shoulder. The Legionnaire leaned forward and muttered something into the king’s ear and Justinian glanced up, looking directly at Thaedoren. The Tamaell nodded in acknowledgement.
When the outrage began to die down, Thaedoren shifted out from behind the table, centering everyone’s attention on himself.
“I don’t believe the Archon intended to slight us all. But I can attest for the Alvritshai that the obstacles are not too great for us to overcome either. From what I’ve seen, the human Provinces will prevail as well. We simply need to return to our homes—to Caercaern, to the dwarren tunnels, to Corsair—and regroup. If we work together, we can rebuild. The Alvritshai are willing to provide stone from the Hauttaeren Mountains. The northern forests are also plentiful.”
He turned to Quotl. “From what we were told, the dwarren’s food storage survived the Wraith attacks.” He spun toward Justinian. “Since their arrival on the coast, the humans have proven resourceful and adaptive in terms of construction and innovation. And your people are numerous, especially now. Even with the destruction inland and along the coast, I’d wager that there are still more human survivors than dwarren or Alvritshai. You have the manpower.
“If we work together, share resources, if we aid each other, we can rebuild Wrath Suvane the way it was, without the help of Andover!”
As he spoke, those assembled began to stir. The dwarren behind Quotl had heads bowed together, deep in conversation. The GreatLords present were also animated, although Berand’s dour expression hadn’t faded. But the real leaders were not participating, were waiting and watching, letting the building excitement over the proposal grow. Quotl nodded in Thaedoren’s direction and took a long draw on his pipe. Justinian appeared about to speak, but Thaedoren saw Roland squeeze his shoulder, halting him. The young king lowered his head slightly and fiddled with the sling that held his injured arm close to his chest.
Then someone else spoke, cutting through the mounting enthusiasm.
“No, you cannot.”
Thaedoren spun, the voice coming from behind him, near the doors. The rest of the room gasped, a few of the soldiers, Riders, and Phalanx leaping to their feet, reaching for their weapons. Those stationed at the doors reacted instantly, their blades whisking from their sheaths as they turned toward the figure who stood behind them, obviously startled, as someone cried out, “He appeared out of thin air! I saw him!”
To Thaedoren’s right, Moiran leaped to her feet. “Shaeveran!”
Without pause, Thaedoren raised one hand, palm out, and shouted, “Halt! It is Colin Harten!”
The guards at the door froze, swords at the ready, already half surrounding Shaeveran. The mixed group—composed of dwarren Riders, Alvritshai Phalanx, and Legionnaires—shot angry glances toward their respective leaders, clearly seeking orders or verifying them. Roland had stepped in front of Justinian. Ikterru, the dwarren Cochen, now stood beside Quotl, an axe in hand, two more Riders behind them.
Thaedoren waited to make certain no one would do anything drastic, then lowered his arm and bowed toward Shaeveran, more formally than he ever had before. The tension on the Alvritshai side of the room altered immediately, for his posture and the depth of the bow indicated that he considered Shaeveran not only Resue-aein—a friend of House Resue—but also the Tamaell’s equal. All of the Phalanx sheathed their cattans and fell back into their previous positions. Even Saetor, who had stood to protect Moiran.
“Shaeveran. It is good to see you. Welcome to our…gathering.”
Shaeveran reached up and pulled back the hood that had hidden his features. Another gasp rippled through the room, for everyone could see the darkness that stained his hands and had appeared in striations up the length of his neck. A few marks touched his face as well, looking like tattoos, except that they shifted and writhed beneath his skin.
He nodded toward the dwarren contingent and King Justinian. “I’m glad you are all here. It will make this discussion easier.”
“What discussion?” GreatLord Berand asked. “Why have you interrupted this counsel uninvited? And why should we listen to you?”
“GreatLord!” Justinian snapped. “Enough.”
“Shaeveran is welcome at any of my counsels,” Thaedoren said coldly. “And we should listen to him because without his intervention, we would all be corpses rotting on the plains before Temeritt. He is the one responsible for the fire that swept the Wraiths and their army from the earth.”
GreatLord Kobel stood. “Is this true? Were you responsible for the White Fire?”
Everyone in the room turned to Shaeveran, breath held.
He hesitated, then said, “Yes, I summoned the White Fire. It’s why I’ve come.”
The room exploded, louder and more raucous than at any time before. Thaedoren realized it wasn’t going to calm down for long moments, so he moved back behind the table littered with parchment, notes, quill, and ink, and sat down. Someone produced wine and poured them all glasses. Thaedoren took a large swallow, then another, before setting the glass aside.
“We knew he was behind it,” Moiran said, “but it’s going to wreak havoc with the Order. They’ve lived too long under Lotaern’s hand, have been led to distrust Shaeveran, if not despise him. They won’t be swayed away from believing it was Aielan’s will that easily.”
“They’ve spent the last five days speaking to the Phalanx,” Saetor interjected. “I’ve seen them working their way through the army. They’ve held multiple rituals on the plains, all well attended. They will claim Shaeveran is taking credit for an act of Aielan.”
Thaedoren frowned. “Have they found a new Chosen yet?”
“There is one who appears to be leading them. His name is Couraenen.”
“When this meeting ends, I will want to speak with this Couraenen.”
Saetor leaned back and motioned one of his own House Phalanx forward. “Find Couraenen, a member of the Order of Aielan. Bring him here.”
The guardsman nodded and departed.
On the floor, GreatLord Berand’s voice began to override all of the others as he shouted, “Why should we accept your word on this? What proof do you have? Why should we believe you rather than accept the word of our patri that it was the merciful Hand of Diermani?”
The rest of the chamber quieted by the time he finished. Shaeveran had not moved the entire time, but now, with a sudden, blurred motion, he vanished and reappeared twenty steps further into the chamber, directly between the Alvritshai and dwarren tables, facing Berand. Nearly everyone pulled back in surprise.
“You may believe whatever you wish, GreatLord. It does not matter to me. But I tell you that I called the White Fire forth and I let it burn across the world. You all felt its touch, every last one of you. Some of you were affected more than others. Some were driven mad by it. But know this—for that moment, when the flames burned inside you, your souls were laid bare to me. I saw everything—your fears, your desires, all of the pettiness of your lives…and all of your strengths. I judged each and every one of you. And for those that I felt were against the three races, against the survival of Wrath Suvane, I exacted punishment. The Wraiths and all of those that followed them were trapped inside those flames. The fact that you are standing here, defying me, means that I found something decent inside of you at that moment, that there was something within you worth saving.”
He’d spoken to Berand, but now he spun to include all of those gathered. “The Wraiths are not dead. I have simply captured them, imprisoned them inside the White Fire. Right now, that Fire has split and burns in three columns to the east. You must have seen the glow on the horizon during the night, especially from here at the palace. Those three pillars will burn for months, perhaps even years, but they will not burn forever. They will diminish over time, dying down until there is nothing left but a black ember for each, and then even that will cool and fade into a lump of char. But even then the Wraiths and their Horde will not be dead.”
