Leaves of Flame by Benjamin Tate Page B

known a time when the Tree was not in Caercaern, protecting them. When they begin to take their places in the Evant, Lotaern will lose even more of his power, more of his control.”
    “It’s already begun,” Eraeth added. “Both Houdyll and Terroec ascended in their fathers’ places after the introduction of the Winter Tree.”
    Colin stared at the knife in Eraeth’s hands and grimaced. “I should never have gone to him after forging it, should never have revealed its existence to him.”
    “You worked with him in its creation. It was only natural for you to take it to him.”
    But Colin knew what Aeren would not say out loud: that Colin had once again ignored the changing world around him, that if he had only looked he would have seen how Lotaern had lost power in the Evant and he would have known that sharing the creation of the knife would be a mistake.
    He caught Aeren’s gaze and said, “You are too forgiving.” Then he frowned, shifted forward. “Why does Lotaern seek this power? The Order is already equivalent to a House, from what I saw in the Evant years ago. Hasn’t he achieved enough?”
    Aeren sighed and shook his head. “Once, before the threat of the Wraiths and the sukrael, I believe the Chosen would have been content with what he has now, but not any longer. I think he believes that the Wraiths and the sukrael are a trial, sent by Aielan to test us, to bring us all back beneath her Light.”
    “He may be right,” Eraeth said.
    “Yes, but he believes our failure to eliminate the Wraiths is because we are not showing enough faith—­in Aielan, in the Flame… in the Chosen. He believes the Lords of the Evant, and the Tamaell in particular, have fallen short of Aielan’s regard. He believes that it is Aielan’s will that the Order rise up and seize control, that only then can we defeat the Wraiths and the sukrael.”
    “With himself as Chosen.”
    Aeren nodded. “He thinks the war with the Wraiths is a religious war, and that only with the Order in power can the Alvritshai prevail.”
    “I would think he would welcome my help then,” Colin muttered, “since I have brought him the Tree, and now the knife.”
    “And have a human be the savior of the Alvritshai?” Eraeth scoffed. “He has reserved that role for himself.”
    Moiran returned, trailing a few servants who began clearing out the remains of the food, leaving the wine. “Are the members of the Order situated?” Aeren asked.
    “I have placed them in the farthest corner of the house, on the second level. They will have a spectacular view of the lake.”
    Aeren smiled. “And be as far from this discussion as possible.”
    Moiran sat down beside Colin. “I have no idea what you are insinuating,” she said innocently. “Now, what did I miss?”
    “We were discussing Lotaern.”
    “He wants the knife, to solidify and regain some of his lost power within the Evant,” Moiran said succinctly. At Fedaureon’s annoyed look, she added, “I was the Tamaea of the Evant at one point, Fedaureon. I know how power works and is wielded.” Then she turned to Colin. “But the caitan asked an important question: Why did you come here?Even using the pass and the halls beneath the mountain, you did not need to come to Artillien.”
    Colin could hear in the tone of her voice that she already knew the answer and did not approve. Taking a deep breath, he caught and held Aeren’s gaze and said, “I need reinforcements. I was hoping—­”
    “No.” Moiran stood as her voice cut across Colin’s, so she could glare down at Aeren. “You are a Lord of the House of Evant. You will not traipse off to the White Wastes.”
    “It’s winter. Anything that would require the attention of the Lord of House Rhyssal can be handled by its heir.”
    Moiran crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the way Fedaureon perked up in his seat. “It is winter, yes, which means that the White Wastes will be as dangerous and as deadly as at any other time of