Leaves of Flame (50 page)

A siege, one that he doubted Temeritt had prepared for. There’d been no time for preparation. The Horde’s attack had come too fast, with no warning.

But they could not hope to hold them here, on the empty hills beneath Northward Ridge.

A moment later, GreatLord Kobel looked up, and Greg-son could see all of his own thoughts mirrored in Kobel’s eyes.

“Then we retreat to Temeritt. May Diermani send us mercy and the walls hold.”

“Lady Moiran?”

Moiran frowned down at the pages of parchment sorted and stacked neatly into distinct heaps, one for each of the Houses she suspected of being in league with Lotaern. She had gathered more evidence against Lord Orraen and Lord Saetor, but Lord Peloroun appeared to have halted his purchases of food and supplies. Either he’d finished his preparations, or Fedaureon was correct and his actions were legitimate.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t believe that for a moment. Her frustration had reached its peak that morning, when she had finally managed to find a link between Lord Orraen and the Order. She’d written the Lady of House Licaeta to beg her to sell some of the grain purchased earlier in the year, offering an outrageous price for such a small amount, and Vivaen’s response had finally arrived. The letter was frivolous, as nearly all of Vivaen’s missives were. Moiran could practically hear the woman’s giddy laugh as she read it, speaking of trivialities before finally arriving at the heart of the letter: an apology. She couldn’t possibly send Moiran any grain, even at such a generous price, because the excess grain had already been sent to the Sanctuary. She would have to petition the Chosen.

Moiran had cried out as she read it, had summoned a servant to find Fedaureon, then been too impatient to wait, gathering up the papers she’d collected and searching him out herself. He’d been in his father’s room along with Daevon and caitan Mattalaen, studying the layout of Rhyssal House lands, a huge map spread out across the desk before them.

She’d presented Vivaen’s letter in triumph. “Here is our connection to the Order of Aielan. They’re providing the Chosen with the supplies that they purchase under the guise of tithes to the Sanctuary.”

Fedaureon had frowned down at the letter where it had come to rest covering part of the map, then glanced up in annoyance. “The caitan and I are busy, Mother. Can you show me this later? I’ve already informed Father of your earlier suspicions.”

And he’d turned back to the map, brushing the letter aside as he leaned forward. Mattalaen had hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but after a moment had joined her son. Daevon had glared at her son’s back, lips pursed, then cast Moiran an apologetic look.

Moiran had been mortified, her shock transforming into anger after only a few short breaths. She’d carefully picked up Vivaen’s letter and returned to her rooms, moving slowly even as she seethed inside. Aeren would have taken the time to listen to her. But more than that, Fedaureon had shown blatant disrespect for her in front of one who was not part of the immediate family. She wanted him to be independent, but she had never thought he would take that so far as to embarrass her in front of another member of the House.

She had sat in her chamber staring at her evidence, trying to decide what she should do.

Now she murmured beneath her breath, “He’s young, Moiran. He didn’t realize what he’d done. You can reprimand him later, if Daevon hasn’t done so already.” Although now that she thought about it, she should have said something there, in the room, with Mattalaen present. She pinched her nose between her eyes and sighed, shaking her head.

At the door, someone coughed discreetly and she glanced up, mildly shocked. She’d heard the servant arrive, but had forgotten she was there. Berating herself, she asked brusquely, “What is it, Sylvea?”

The servant stepped into the room, her motions tentative. “A few of the servants went down to services at the temple this morning, for dociern, and—”

Moiran’s eyebrow rose as the servant trailed off.“And?”

A look of resignation snapped across Sylvea’s face a moment before she bowed her head. “The member of the Order of the Flame was speaking for that service,” she muttered morosely, “and he was saying things about . . . about the lords, about how they had faltered in their faith, about how some of them had lost their way. He didn’t mention names, but it was obvious he meant Lord Aeren, and I know it’s not true, but . . . but he was so convincing! And I could tell that those at the service were listening to him, grumbling under their breath or nodding, and when I asked, they said the member of the Flame has been speaking like this for over a week now, and I just thought you should know.”

Sylvea glanced up at the end, eyes pleading, her words rushing forth in a single breath.

Moiran didn’t move, her body rigid with tension. Inside, her stomach roiled and she tasted bile at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, the effort painful, then glanced toward the window to judge the light.

“Lady Moiran?” Sylvea’s voice was barely a whisper, fraught with worry.

It snapped Moiran into action.

“It’s nearly terciern,” she said, standing, the papers and Fedaureon’s indiscretion forgotten. “Fetch my shawl . . . no, go to your own quarters and bring me back one of your own shawls or a cloak, preferably something with a hood so that I can conceal myself. I assume that this priest from the Order of the Flame will be giving the afternoon service?”

Sylvea nodded. “I heard one of the others say that he’s been speaking at nearly every service for the past week.”

“Good. Meet me at the servants’ gate with the cloak. We’ll have to walk down to the town to allay suspicion. Move quickly. We haven’t much time.”

Sylvea darted out of the room, the sound of her soft footsteps receding down the hall as she sprinted for her rooms. Moiran made her way toward the front of the manse. She contemplated telling Fedaureon where she was headed, but dismissed the idea. He was still in Aeren’s rooms with Mattalaen. She could handle this herself.

Ten minutes later she was standing outside the servants’ gate, the late afternoon sunlight not quite warm enough to take the chill out of the breeze. She shivered, then caught sight of Sylvea running toward her across the courtyard, a dark shawl bundled in one hand. She’d had the presence of mind to attire herself similarly. She slowed as she neared Moiran, who took the proffered shawl and draped it over her head, pulling its sides close to conceal her face.

“I hope this will work,” Sylvea fretted.

“This is fine, Sylvea.”

The shawl was large enough to cover her head and fall across both her shoulders, concealing the embroidery near her neck if Moiran pulled its edges in close. None of the servants would have such fine material for clothing, but she hoped the dimness of the temple would hide the quality of her dress. She could do nothing about the shoes without losing more time.

Satisfied, she opened the servants’ gate and motioned Sylvea to follow.

They wound down the road and off the rock promontory overlooking the lake into the streets of Artillien, passing a group of Phalanx who didn’t give Moiran a second glance. Relaxing slightly, she and Sylvea entered the marketplace, the servant taking her arm and chattering away as if they were searching for specific goods even as she wound them toward the temple. Moiran remained quiet, responding when necessary, but her attention was focused on the temple,her anger already building.They had known that the Order of the Flame presented a danger.Aeren had thought that confronting Lotaern in the Evant would be enough, that the Chosen would remove his warrior acolytes as requested and that would be the end of it. But Moiran had partnered with Fedorem as Tamaell long enough to know that once someone was ensconced in their role, they were nearly impossible to move. The members of the Order of the Flame had integrated themselves too deeply into the local temples to be simply ordered home. She hadn’t expected Lotaern to follow the Evant’s edict without a fight.

Sylvea fell silent as soon as they left the marketplace and arrived at the temple doors. Two acolytes stood outside, ushering the last of the supplicants through the doors as the chimes overhead began to announce terciern, the afternoon ritual. Moiran crossed the threshold into the shadowed interior, an acolyte’s hands on her back to guide her. She bowed her head and tugged the shawl farther down over her face as he closed the doors behind them, then followed Sylvea into the back of the chamber, behind a number of other supplicants.

Moiran was shocked at the amount of people in the temple. She’d attended rituals before, but had never seen so many in the afternoon session, when most would be working the fields or minding their own shops. Utiern and cotiern had always been the most popular rituals during the day, never terciern. The fact that there were so many here at this hour sent a shudder of unease through Moiran’s gut.

The supplicants knelt abruptly, and Moiran followed suit, sinking to her knees at the back of the room. Near the front, four acolytes were arranged around the basin that formed the main altar, a fire already burning in the oil that filled it, the flames skirling toward the ceiling, black smoke thick on the air.The oil and smoke burned Moiran’s nostrils and she tried to take shallow breaths as the four acolytes were joined by the two who had stood guard at the door. A chant began. It was the typical terciern mantra, thanking Aielan for the abundance of food, for the sun and rain to grow it, casting blessings on the workers who tilled the soil and the harvest afterward. Moiran murmured the chant without thought, her eyes scanning those gathered and the acolytes near the basin. All of the supplicants were commoners in Artillien, many of whom she’d done business with. Most had family members who worked at the manse. The acolytes were men and women she’d seen at this temple since she began attending after bonding with Aeren and becoming part of the Rhyssal House by blood.

She began to think that Sylvea had overreacted, when the chanting began to die down and the six acolytes bowed down toward the fl ames that represented Aielan and backed away.

As they retreated, the member of the Order of the Flame appeared, rounding the side of the basin slowly, head lowered and concealed by a cowl. For a moment, it appeared as if the acolytes were bowing down to him instead of to Ai-elan, and Moiran pressed her lips together in disapproval, knowing that the misdirection was intentional. He wore the same robes as the acolytes, but with additional raiment over the shoulders—a length of silken purple cloth with an embroidered white flame on one side, a cattan on the other.

When he reached the front of the basin, the red-gold flames billowing out behind him, he paused, then reached up to his cowl. With a flourish, he flung the cloth back, revealing his face.

At the same time, the fire behind him blazed up with a startling whoosh, the fl ames changing from red-gold to white.

Those assembled gasped and Moiran’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t think it was anything more than theatrics, but she had to admit it had an impact. Even Sylvea turned to her with wide eyes, quickly ducking her head as if chastised when Moiran merely shook her head.

“Aielan welcomes you,” the member of the Flame intoned.“She makes Her presence known in the flames of the altar, and in the embers of your heart. Feel Her presence and know that She is with you, always.”

Those around Moiran whispered small prayers to themselves, a few grasping fl ame pendants that hung around their necks, the man beside her raising it to his lips and forehead. The acolytes who had backed away from the fire began to circulate among those assembled, touching bowed heads in blessing.A few pressed offerings into the acolytes’ hands as they passed—coins, or small bundles of grain, or notes on parchment to be tossed into the flames of the basin.

“You come here seeking solace, seeking Aielan’s blessing,” the member of the Flame continued, “and for that we are grateful. But there are others in Artillien who are not as faithful as you, who have strayed from Aielan’s path, who have lost sight of Aielan’s flame and have been led or have wandered astray. Those Alvritshai should be pitied, for it is only under Aielan’s guidance that we shall be shown the true path and the way back home. It is only with Her protection that we will reclaim the lands that we once ruled and bring ourselves out from beneath this banishment and back beneath Her benevolence.

“And is it not obvious that we have fallen from Her grace? Look at what has become of us.We have been forced to retreat from our own lands, the world becoming cold and bitter toward us. Even as we attempt to build new lives in these lands, we fi nd ourselves plagued with disaster. We have dealt with death since we arrived, with famine as we attempted to work the earth of these new lands, with attacks from races we have never encountered before. As we strive to create peace, even more horrors are unleashed among us. We have seen the return of the sukrael to the world! Their legions attacked our lands as their presence spread, enabled by the human Wraith!”

“But what of the Winter Tree?” someone shouted from those kneeling before the basin. “What of Shaeveran?”