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Authors: Benjamin Tate
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corridors of the Sanctuary proper. “First, I intend to get warm,” he said, snapping his hands briskly to increase the blood flow. “Then I intend to visit Lord Aeren.”
He smiled at Lotaern’s irritated glance.
The irritation did not taint the Chosen’s voice when he spoke. “And the storms?”
Colin’s smile faltered. He hated to admit it, but Lotaern had been correct. “I’ll have to verify that the Wells have been untouched, as you said.”
They reached the main corridor, the central chamber of worship for the Alvritshai and its acolytes opening up before them, its cavernous heights lit with thousands of candles.The chamber smelled of oil and smoke and incense, and echoed faintly with the scuffing of sandals from acolytes moving through the corridors and hallways above.
Lotaern paused, then said, “You won’t do it alone. You’ll have an escort of the Order of the Flame with you.”
“I DON’T NEED AN ESCORT,” Colin protested.
“But you will have one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.
“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.
The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the knife that you carry.” Lotaern did not drop his gaze from Colin to the satchel slung across his chest where the knife rested, wrapped in chain mail, but Colin tensed anyway. “That knife may be the only weapon we have against the Wraiths, the only object that can kill them. It cannot be lost. If you travel alone and the Wraiths find you…” He let the thought trail off, then added, “We cannot allow it to fall into the Wraiths’ hands.”
Colin’s knuckles turned white and with conscious effort he forced himself to relax. He’d spent the last one hundred and twenty-seven years since the Accord more or less alone.He’d traveled the land, worked with the Alvritshai, the dwarren, the Faelehgre, searched for the Wells and created the Trees, but almost always by himself, isolated, withdrawn from the world. Even the time spent with Aeren, Moiran, their son Fedaureon, and Eraeth eventually ended, the Lord of House Rhyssal drawn into the politics of the Evant, Moiran focusing on their new son and the Ilvaeren and the economic stability of the House. Colin had found himself visiting them far less often than immediately after the Accord, preferring the seclusion of the Ostraell and the white ruins of Terra’nor.
But Lotaern was correct: the knife had to be protected, guarded. Entrusting it to one person, even himself, could not be allowed. His isolation would have to end, unless he gave the knife to someone else, and that he would not do. Not until it had been tested and proven effective. Not until another weapon like it could be made.
And not until Walter was dead.
His shoulders slumped, although he let his anger darken his face, allowed his reluctance to tinge his voice. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll allow an escort of the Order. No more than four, I’ll want to travel as swiftly as possible. And they will follow my orders only.”
And if the need arose, he could always abandon them. They could not hold him prisoner, could not contain him.
He saw the same thought flicker through Lotaern’s eyes, but the Chosen turned to Vaeren. “Assemble the group. You’ll lead, but use only members of the Flame. Take whatever you feel is necessary from the Order.”
“I’ll want to take Siobhaen.” When Lotaern hesitated, Vaeren added, “She’s the best warrior you have, the most skilled with the Light.”
Lotaern grimaced. “Very well.”
“Also Boraeus and Petraen.”
The Chosen’s eyebrows rose. “Both brothers?”
“The
He smiled at Lotaern’s irritated glance.
The irritation did not taint the Chosen’s voice when he spoke. “And the storms?”
Colin’s smile faltered. He hated to admit it, but Lotaern had been correct. “I’ll have to verify that the Wells have been untouched, as you said.”
They reached the main corridor, the central chamber of worship for the Alvritshai and its acolytes opening up before them, its cavernous heights lit with thousands of candles.The chamber smelled of oil and smoke and incense, and echoed faintly with the scuffing of sandals from acolytes moving through the corridors and hallways above.
Lotaern paused, then said, “You won’t do it alone. You’ll have an escort of the Order of the Flame with you.”
“I DON’T NEED AN ESCORT,” Colin protested.
“But you will have one.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed and he straightened inside the foyer of the Sanctuary, conscious of the two members of the Flame standing behind Lotaern and the acolytes kneeling in prayer inside the ritual chamber to one side. As he adjusted his grip on his staff, Vaeren surreptitiously shifted his hand to his cattan.
“I can travel much faster without them,” he growled.
The Chosen nodded. “I realize that, but there are more important things at play here now than speed.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the knife that you carry.” Lotaern did not drop his gaze from Colin to the satchel slung across his chest where the knife rested, wrapped in chain mail, but Colin tensed anyway. “That knife may be the only weapon we have against the Wraiths, the only object that can kill them. It cannot be lost. If you travel alone and the Wraiths find you…” He let the thought trail off, then added, “We cannot allow it to fall into the Wraiths’ hands.”
Colin’s knuckles turned white and with conscious effort he forced himself to relax. He’d spent the last one hundred and twenty-seven years since the Accord more or less alone.He’d traveled the land, worked with the Alvritshai, the dwarren, the Faelehgre, searched for the Wells and created the Trees, but almost always by himself, isolated, withdrawn from the world. Even the time spent with Aeren, Moiran, their son Fedaureon, and Eraeth eventually ended, the Lord of House Rhyssal drawn into the politics of the Evant, Moiran focusing on their new son and the Ilvaeren and the economic stability of the House. Colin had found himself visiting them far less often than immediately after the Accord, preferring the seclusion of the Ostraell and the white ruins of Terra’nor.
But Lotaern was correct: the knife had to be protected, guarded. Entrusting it to one person, even himself, could not be allowed. His isolation would have to end, unless he gave the knife to someone else, and that he would not do. Not until it had been tested and proven effective. Not until another weapon like it could be made.
And not until Walter was dead.
His shoulders slumped, although he let his anger darken his face, allowed his reluctance to tinge his voice. “Very well,” he agreed. “I’ll allow an escort of the Order. No more than four, I’ll want to travel as swiftly as possible. And they will follow my orders only.”
And if the need arose, he could always abandon them. They could not hold him prisoner, could not contain him.
He saw the same thought flicker through Lotaern’s eyes, but the Chosen turned to Vaeren. “Assemble the group. You’ll lead, but use only members of the Flame. Take whatever you feel is necessary from the Order.”
“I’ll want to take Siobhaen.” When Lotaern hesitated, Vaeren added, “She’s the best warrior you have, the most skilled with the Light.”
Lotaern grimaced. “Very well.”
“Also Boraeus and Petraen.”
The Chosen’s eyebrows rose. “Both brothers?”
“The
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