Well of Sorrows (41 page)

Yet Tamaell Fedorem had done nothing to punish those Lords. Nothing.

The thought left a bitter taste in Eraeth’s mouth and led to other thoughts that he knew he could not voice, not even to Aeren, even when he could see the same thoughts in Aeren’s eyes. Such as whether or not Fedorem had known of the lords’ intentions before they’d reached the Escarpment. And if he had known, why he’d done nothing to stop them.

The obvious answer—that Fedorem had planned the betrayal all along—nauseated Eraeth with shame.

The dwarren drums rumbled across the distance, and Eraeth tore his gaze away from Colin to see the large contingent of dwarren and gaezels pulling to a halt over a hundred paces distant. The dwarren in the lead glared at them from his position, then motioned to the others beside him, not taking his eyes off Aeren. The rest of the dwarren scattered, a group of warriors spreading out in a thin line. Eraeth watched as scouts slipped from their mounts and took off at a run, vanishing in the grasses in the space of a breath. Another group behind began unloading bundles and packs from an array of baggage animals. Sheets of blue-green cloth were unfolded, and poles were erected, the wood looking freshly cut. There must be a copse or thicket nearby, probably in another area where the water breached the surface. The dwarren knew the plains better than the Alvritshai.

A moment later, Aeren released a pent up breath in a slow, careful sigh. “Look,” he said, nodding toward where the poles had been positioned. The unfurled sheets of cloth were being wound around them in an intricate pattern, numerous lengths folded and woven in and out as the dwarren walked back and forth around the central poles, almost like a dance. “It’s to be a formal meeting. We’ll have to give them time to set up the tent and arrange the interior. Once they’re satisfied, they’ll come to us.”

“How many of the Alvritshai will they allow inside the tent?” Aeren turned to consider the size of the tent. “Four, no more.”

“I assume you’ll insist that the human join us.” Eraeth tried to keep the derision out of his voice, knew he hadn’t succeeded.

Aeren smiled. “No. Colin will remain in the camp. I’ll want you there, of course, and two others. Dharel, perhaps. And Auvant. They can bring the cattan blades, but no other weapons. And they are not to draw except on my order.”

Eraeth stiffened at his lord’s tone, but nodded.

Aeren must have seen the disagreement in Eraeth’s face. He turned his full attention on him. “After what happened in Corsair, I want nothing to interfere with the possibility of an agreement with the dwarren here. Nothing.”

Eraeth heard the same intensity in Aeren’s voice as in the audience chamber in Corsair, the same driving force. His lord’s voice throbbed with it.

“Very well,” he said, nodding again, without the stiffness of disapproval, without even a trace of it in his voice.

Aeren relaxed imperceptibly, his attention returning to the industrious dwarren. They were tying off the last lengths of the tent, the edges trailing outward from the central spire. After a moment, Eraeth realized it was set up like a reverse whirlpool, the center of the tent the vortex. And like a whirlpool, he felt a sense of power surrounding it, a density of motion, of force.

“Have the others set up a more permanent camp here, near the stream,” Aeren continued. “And set sentries to keep watch.”

“And then what?”

Aeren turned toward him. “And then we wait.”

The dwarren came for them at dusk, the bright orange of the clouds fading when the sentries called out in harsh warning. The rest of the Phalanx came instantly alert, after the tension of the dwarren arrival had eased through hours of boredom. They’d caught glimpses of the dwarren scouts at a distance, but other than that there had been no movement or activity.

Toward evening, Eraeth had watched Colin wander out to where the occumaen had drifted by earlier; the human had knelt down in the grass to inspect it, lifting his head to gaze off into the distance.

When he’d returned, Eraeth had asked, “What did you find?” Colin had shrugged. “Crushed grass. But the stalks in the center of the path had been sliced off, as if cut with a scythe. I couldn’t find the heads of the grain anywhere.”

Eraeth hadn’t responded.

Now Aeren rose, and Eraeth motioned Dharel and Auvant forward. At the top of the hillock, the sentry stepped back as two dwarren appeared on foot, both at least a foot shorter than Colin, one carrying a ceremonial spear, strings of feathers and beads trailing down from the head. The spear carrier wore the leather armor the dwarren had used before the humans introduced metal armor. Symbols and letters were burned into the armor, reaching all the way around to the back. Thick bands of metal covered both of the dwarren’s forearms in silver. A gold band enclosed his upper right arm. More beads were woven into his gray-streaked beard, and the skin around his eyes was marked with ash.

The other dwarren was younger, dressed in less ceremonial armor. Only one of his forearms had a band encircling it. He regarded the approaching Alvritshai with wariness, his eyes never resting long on one individual.

“A Rider,” Aeren said under this breath, nodding toward the younger dwarren, “sent to protect the clan’s shaman.”

Eraeth nodded, but they were too close to respond.

He could see the shaman’s face now, lit by the fading sun behind them, their shadows falling across the two dwarren. Tanned a dark brown by the sun, wrinkled with age, his eyes were sharp and cold, his mouth set in a slight frown. He kept his attention focused on Aeren after a brief glance at the accompanying Phalanx. Eraeth turned his attention to the Rider, the more dangerous of the two, as Aeren and the shaman began to speak.

In the distance, where darkness had already fallen far out over the plains, a flash of purple lightning lit the sky.

“You summoned the Thousand Springs Clan?” The shaman’s voice was deep and guttural, the Alvritshai words thick with accent, almost incomprehensible. But he did speak Alvritshai.

Aeren nodded his head formally, in the manner of a lord addressing a fellow member of the Evant. “I requested a meeting with Clan Chief Garius, yes.”

The shaman’s eyes narrowed, and the Rider tensed. “You summon the clan chief, you summon the clan.” Both Dharel and Auvant stiffened at his tone of affront.

Aeren hesitated, then nodded again, more carefully, keeping his head down as he spoke. “I intended no insult to the clan.”

The shaman grunted and considered Aeren a long moment; then he turned and gave the Rider a short barked command in dwarren. The Rider frowned, but the shaman had already stepped away and now regarded the occasional flicker of purplish-blue lightning on the horizon as he stumped down the hill, using the spear as a walking stick. The beads rattled against the haft as he moved, and he called back over his shoulder, “Come! Clan Chief Garius awaits!”

The Rider gave them all an unhappy look, then followed the shaman, not waiting for the Alvritshai.

They entered the dwarren camp, passed the sentries, and headed straight for the tent erected earlier. Numerous other tents surrounded it now, smaller, not as complex in construction or as varied in color. Practical tents, made for quick setup and dismantling, but sturdy nonetheless. Even in the deepening darkness, Eraeth could see that. The entire camp itself was practical: central fires, placed so they wouldn’t interfere with the sentries’ night vision, the tents arranged in circles around key locations. Dwarren sat around the fires, eating, drinking, telling stories and laughing. A few were throwing what looked like small bones in some type of intense game, and he counted at least three dwarren men stitching cloth with needle and thread. A dozen Riders in all, which left nearly another dozen on sentry duty, scouting, or watching over the gaezels. He saw no dwarren women, which didn’t surprise him. He’d never seen any dwarren women aboveground.

None of the Riders in the camp seemed concerned about the Alvritshai; Eraeth’s skin prickled at the slight.

The shaman halted at the edge of the tent to allow them to catch up. Eraeth didn’t see an opening and frowned as the shaman removed a rattle—made from the tail of one of the deadly brown plain snakes—shook it once up, down, left, and right, connecting the four imaginary points with a wide circle, then bowed deeply at the waist, arm extended, and said, “Ilacqua and the People of the Thousand Springs welcome you to the meeting hall of Clan Chief Garius. May you drink long from the Sacred Waters and may you find whatever it is that you seek.”

He stayed bent over, as if waiting, and Aeren shot Eraeth a troubled look. No one moved.

The shaman shook the rattle in irritation, without looking up, and Eraeth realized he was pointing with it.

He glanced to the side, and saw that if they followed the sheet of blue-green cloth, it would spiral them into the interior of the tent.

He touched Aeren’s shoulder, motioned to the right, and saw Aeren’s uncertainty fade. His lord stepped forward and entered the curve of the tent’s arm, Eraeth a pace behind, the other two Alvritshai Phalanx following. They came up against a flap of green cloth. Aeren pushed it aside gently and ducked down to enter.

The first thing that struck Eraeth, as the smooth green cloth slid off his back and he stood, was the smoke. It hung in a pungent cloud, sickly sweet—not unpleasant but strong, invading his nostrils and overpowering almost every other sense. He stifled a cough, heard either Dharel or Auvant choke on it. He found if he relaxed and breathed in deeply, he could breathe normally. Eyes watering slightly, he glared around the small chamber and noticed the metalworked braziers that emitted the smoke at four locations around the circular room, set on low tables made of finely worked wood. Another low, round table sat in the center, surrounded by numerous pillows. A wide, shallow bowl full of fruit sat in the middle of the table, and directly above it, near the apex of the tent, hung a fifth brazier.

Garius sat on the opposite side of the table, near one of three other entrances to the chamber. Another dwarren sat next to him. The clan chief was younger than the shaman and sat cross-legged, his arms crossed over his chest so that the two gold bands on his upper arms were visible in the braziers’ soft light; but like the shaman he wore lighter, more comfortable armor, although with fewer symbols scorched into it.

Garius gave them a moment to adjust, then motioned to the pillows scattered around the table. “Sit.”

Like the shaman, his voice was deep, but smoother, his Alvritshai more fluid.

Aeren sat down opposite Garius, so Eraeth sat opposite the other dwarren. He motioned for Dharel and Auvant to remain standing, backs to the sides of the tent. It gave them a slight advantage if the meeting turned ugly. He could feel the tension in the air, from Garius, but more from his companion. The younger dwarren sat stiffly, his darker eyes glaring at the Alvritshai with undisguised hatred. Letting his gaze flicker back and forth between the two, Eraeth realized that the younger dwarren must be Garius’ son. He could see the resemblance in the rounded face, the hair, but particularly around the eyes. Garius’ were brown, his son’s darker, but the bone structure was the same.

“You wished to speak to the clan?” Garius rumbled. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Aeren drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Eraeth thought his lord would be direct, as he’d been with King Stephan. But instead, Aeren asked, “How many of your clan have died this past year? How many in the past five years? The past ten?”

Garius shifted where he sat, the creases in his face deepening as he frowned. He hadn’t expected the questions, had expected something else entirely. “Too many,” he finally answered.

“Too many of the Alvritshai have been lost as well. And for what? The plains?”

Garius’ chin came up. “For our home!” he exclaimed. “You are the ones invading our lands! You and the humans, sending out raiding parties, crossing our borders with your wagon trains, with your Phalanx, stealing our water and our herds, killing the members of the clan when we try to defend ourselves. You are the ones killing us. We were here before you. We have always been here. We are simply protecting what is ours!”

Aeren let him speak, didn’t flinch at the words, didn’t react when Garius’ son bristled, hands falling to his thighs, although not touching the hilts of the two knives sheathed at his waist. He let Garius finish, gave him a moment to catch his breath, then he nodded in agreement. “You’re right.”

Both Garius and his son looked stunned, and Aeren took advantage of the pause.

“We crossed your borders with our parties, with our Phalanx, and we raided your herds and drank of your water. And we’ve killed each other, over and over again, for nearly a hundred years. And I came to ask you a simple question: why?”

Garius frowned.

“Do you know why we crossed your borders, why we came to your plains? Because we had to. The Alvritshai have lived in the northern reaches for generations, in the Hauttaeren Mountains, underground, like you. There and in the surrounding hills and forests. We would have stayed there, except for the ice.”

“Ice?” Garius murmured.