Leaves of Flame (5 page)

Aeren joined him at the balcony, stared out at the Winter Tree, then said casually, “Perhaps you need a different kind of fire for this heartwood . . . a different kind of forge.”

“Like what?” Colin muttered in frustration.

“What about Aielan’s Light?”

In the confines of the meeting room within the Order of Aielan, Colin grunted and shook his head. It had taken him a moment on that chill night over forty years ago to understand that Aeren did not mean the metaphorical Light that the Alvritshai used as a representation of Aielan, but the literal white fi re that lay in the depths of the Alvritshai mountains of Hauttaeran. Every acolyte of the Order of Aielan must at some point immerse themselves in the white flames hidden in the catacombs and halls that riddled the mountains behind Caercaern before they could become true members of the Order. Aeren had done so before the deaths of his father and elder brother had forced him to ascend as Lord of his House and give up his ties to the Order. Occasionally, he wore the pendant that signified his passage. Colin had entered the white flames himself in the years following the Accord, after studying the Scripts of the Order as if he were an acolyte himself, although he had never officially been part of the Order. He couldn’t become a true member, since he wasn’t Alvritshai.

But he should have thought of Aielan’s Light on his own. After all, he’d used the white flame to create the seeds that had become the Seasonal Trees. He’d only immersed the seeds in the flame then, so that they could absorb some of the properties of the fi re itself, so that they’d be imbued with its power and be more resilient and harder to destroy. But attempting to wield the fl ame, to use it as a tool to shape the heartwood. . . .

He hadn’t known if it had ever been attempted, hadn’t known if it could even be done.

But if it could be done, then Aielan’s Light would be perfect. A natural flame, but completely unlike the fire of a blacksmith’s forge. It would not burn like the fire of a forge; it would not incinerate the heartwood or cause it to explode. It was a fire like the power already resident in the wood he needed to mold, alive and somehow prescient.

It was a fire under the control of Lotaern, the Chosen of the Order.

As if the thought had summoned him, the door to the meeting room opened and Lotaern stepped into the room, followed by two members of the Order of the Flame, the guardsmen taking up positions on either side of the door as Lotaern halted at the edge of the table. The stylized white flame of the Order stood out on the chests of the two guardsmen, signifying they were members of the Order’s internal Phalanx. Lotaern wore the robes of the Chosen, a subdued dark blue, flames stitched into the sleeves and collar. He carried no visible weapons, but both guardsmen rested hands on the pommels of their cattan blades. All three were tense, but it was the weariness in Lotaern’s bearing—even though the Chosen stood tall, back straight—that caught Colin’s attention. He appeared tired and worn, and with a start Colin realized that he had to be nearly two hundred years old. No. Two hundred was too young. If Lotaern had been the Chosen when Aeren was merely an acolyte, it meant that Lotaern had to be closer to two hundred and fifty. Perhaps more.

And for the fi rst time, Colin saw that age, as if it had been draped around his shoulders like a blanket. The changes since the Accord and the planting of the Winter Tree were subtle, yet striking. Wrinkles had appeared around his eyes and mouth, breaking the usual smoothness of Alvritshai skin, and his dark hair had lost some of its sheen, appearing dull and somehow brittle. It suddenly struck Colin that he had not thought the Alvritshai would age.Aeren and Eraeth,Moiran and Lotaern,had been such a constant part of his life since he emerged from seclusion near the Well that he’d assumed they’d remain with him forever, unchanged.

The fact that they wouldn’t, that eventually even the Alvritshai he knew would die—as all of his human acquaintances had—hit him like a sharp jab to his heart. It left a deep hollow in the center of his chest, a coldness upon his skin.

Lotaern stirred, and Colin shoved the sudden pall of loneliness aside. He stood slowly, his hands resting on the table on either side of the knife for support. He still felt weak and wasn’t certain he was strong enough to reach his staff without stumbling. He didn’t want to show such weakness in front of Lotaern.

“I did not realize that you were in Caercaern,” Lotaern said, and even the timbre of his voice was raspier, although it still throbbed with the power he had accumulated for the Order over his lifetime.

“No one knows. Not even Lord Aeren.”

Lotaern’s eyebrows rose in surprise.“Then why have you come?”

Colin shifted back, lifting his hands from the table, testing his strength.As he did so,Lotaern’s gaze dropped to the knife.

He drew his breath in sharply and locked eyes with Colin. “You’ve been down to the cavern, to Aielan’s Light. Without my knowledge.”

“You gave me permission to seek Aielan’s Light in my studies whenever necessary.”

Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “So I did. But that was over forty years ago, when you first arrived with the request.”

He began moving around the edge of the table, the two warriors of the Flame shifting uncertainly behind him. When they started to step forward, he waved them back in irritation. The anger and guarded tension in his shoulders fell away as he approached, replaced with a blatant curiosity, but he halted a few paces away, even though Colin could see the urge to reach out and touch the knife, to inspect it, in the way he clutched his hands at his waist, as if restraining himself. It was the same curiosity that had overcome Lotaern’s wariness the first time he’d approached him about the heartwood. His anger over having the responsibility of the Winter Tree thrust upon him had faded with the challenge of molding the heartwood, although it hadn’t completely vanished.

“I thought we’d decided that Aielan’s Light was not enough,” he said. “Every attempt we made to mold the wood—by either of us—caused it to crack as it was reshaped. How did you manage to overcome that?”

“I didn’t know how to at first,” Colin said, watching Lotaern closely. “And then I realized what we were doing wrong. We were treating the heartwood as if it were inanimate, merely a block of wood waiting to be molded. Carving it, forging it like metal, even shaping it with Aielan’s Light—all were attempts to manipulate it with tools. But it’s not inanimate.It’s a living thing.Attempting to work it with something as primitive as a tool literally caused it harm. Even Aielan’s Light cracked its skin. It has no blood, so cannot bleed, but the effect is the same as if we had cut ourselves open from groin to throat. The heartwood could not survive the trauma.”

Lotaern frowned down at the knife. “So what did you do? How could you shape it as a living thing without harming it?”

Colin turned away, grabbed his staff, comforted by the life-force he felt pulsing through the wood. “It required the knowledge of the Faelehgre, the Lifeblood, and the cooperation of the dwarren.”

Lotaern looked up, startled. “The dwarren? How could they have been of help?”

Colin closed his eyes at the taint of derision in Lotaern’s voice. He’d been expecting it, although he’d hoped that enough time had passed with the Accord in place that emotions would have changed.

Except that the Alvritshai were long-lived. Unlike the dwarren and humans that lived today, Lotaern had been at the battlefields of the Escarpment, had lived during the vicious attacks that had preceded it, Alvritshai and dwarren killing each other over a misunderstanding and a territorial dispute about lands and the plains. Lotaern had had family and friends killed by the dwarren. Such memories were hard to forget.

He sighed.“The reason the heartwood was cracking during the molding process, was because it couldn’t heal itself fast enough under the changes we were requiring it to undergo. I needed a way to keep it alive long enough that it could heal itself after I shaped it. The Faelehgre suggested I immerse it in the Lifeblood, to prolong its life, but even though the wood is alive, the Lifeblood did not affect it the same way as it affected me or the Faelehgre. It absorbed some of the Lifeblood’s power, making it hardier, but it still cracked and died during the shaping process. I suspect that the reason the forest surrounding the Well is as . . . aware as it is, is because of the Well. The trees have absorbed the Lifeblood’s power over time, which is why the Lifeblood did not affect the heartwood as expected—it already contains some of the power of the Well. I needed something different.

“So I went to the dwarren to ask them for access to the Confluence.”

Lotaern stilled. “The ruanavriell?”

“Yes.”

“And they allowed you to see it? They allowed you to use it?”

The dwarren guarded the Confluence with a religious zeal that transcended even clan lines. If the Confluence were threatened, all clan rivalries were forgotten. It was their most closely guarded secret, one that Colin knew the Alvritshai had been attempting to discover for hundreds of years. The sons of the Houses of the Evant were once sent into the plains to search for the Confluence as part of their Trial, their initiation into the House. They were sent to find the Confluence’s source, and could not return until they’d obtained a vial of the rose-tinged healing waters. Most of those on their Trial found an offshoot of the Confluence, a river or stream or pool of the water tinged pink by the heart of the Confluence, but none of them had found the true source. None that had survived their Trial anyway. Colin had met Aeren during his Trial, and Aeren had given the vial he’d gathered to Colin’s father to help heal one of the members of the wagon train.

With the signing of the Accord by Tamaell Thaedoren, the Trials and the search had ceased, at the request of the dwarren and in the interest of forging peace. Now, the location of the Confluence could be easily surmised by the conflux of the four linear rivers that divided the dwarren plains into quarters . . . but how to access the Confluence was still a secret. It lay underground, in the labyrinthine depths that only the dwarren knew and controlled.

Colin met the avid interest in Lotaern’s eyes and said, “Yes. As with the Order, I studied with the dwarren shamans, learned about their religious beliefs, learned of their gods—Ilacqua and the four gods of the winds—and their vow to protect the Lands. Perhaps if the Alvritshai spent more time learning of their ways, the dwarren would be more accommodating.”

Lotaern frowned at the reprimand, but ignored it, motioning toward the knife.“And the effects of the Confluence— of the ruanavriell—worked?”

“With time, yes.”

Lotaern reached for the knife, but halted with his hand hovering over its handle. “May I?”

Colin caught the barest hint of annoyance that he had to ask, but nodded.

Lotaern lifted the blade lightly, treating it as if it were fragile, although it had the heft and weight of a normal dagger.

“Careful,” Colin said. “It’s sharp. Sharper than a normal blade.”

Lotaern frowned, then touched the edge of the blade lightly with one finger, wincing as he drew it away, a thin line of blood already welling up from the cut. He held his injured hand to one side and let the blood drip onto the table until one of the watching guardsmen produced a small square of cloth and handed it to him, shooting Colin a dark glare.

“I warned him,” Colin said to the guard, his voice soft, although his hands clenched on the staff.

“Yes, you did,” Lotaern muttered. He pressed his finger into the cloth, but did not let go of the knife, turning it in the light of the sconces, examining the handle, the double-sided blade, the sharp point. He glanced toward Colin. “Why a knife and not a sword?”

“The length of wood given to me was not heavy enough for a longer blade. And I thought starting with something smaller would be better, until we knew if it would work.”

“How long did it take to forge this?”

“What day is it? What year?”

Lotaern looked up, eyebrows raised. “The fifth of Iaen, third quarter, the five hundred and eleventh year since the Abandonment.”

Colin thought for a moment. “Then it’s been seventeen years.”