Well of Sorrows (46 page)
Authors: Joshua Palmatier
As they neared Caercaern, Aeren motioned for the Phalanx to mount. He stared up through the edge of the thick trees to the mountains that towered above. They blazed in the sunlight, and he tasted the snow on the air, realized his breath came in plumes before him. He shivered, the roadway mostly in shadow.
Then they cantered around a twist in the road, and Caercaern came into view. “Welcome to Caercaern,” he murmured, and heard Colin gasp.
Caercaern rose up out of the trees, a colossal work of stone, tiered like the buildings below, cascades of water running down the mountain to either side. The first tier consisted of a wall built out from the stone face of the mountain; the road leveled off at the wall’s base, running nearly its full length before reaching the gate. Each tier above it acted as another wall, with gates at various positions as they ascended, no two in a direct line. Banners snapped in the wind, and Alvritshai were visible on the walls and rooftops and the bridges and streets that they could see from this vantage.
“All the buildings that you see, the roads and courtyards, squares and temples, all of it is a facade,” Aeren said as they approached the gates. “The real Caercaern is hidden beneath the mountain. There are enough halls and fountains and pools beneath the stone to house all the Alvritshai for years if necessary.”
“What do you think?” Dharel asked.
“It’s . . . huge.” Aeren watched the human struggle for a moment, then shake his head. “I thought the Faelehgre city was exotic, but it’s a frail beauty, made of white stone and narrow towers. And its beauty is fading, collapsing inward. But this . . .”
Aeren smiled. “Look behind you.”
Colin turned and gasped again. The entire valley spread out beneath the mountain fortress, hills and trees undulating away, covered in a thin layer of mist. A few towers stood out in the distance, on hilltops and promontories, and the occasional town or city peeked up from the rumpled blanket of forest. Much farther away, the duller browns and yellows of the cultivated fields interrupted the greenery.
The group drew to a halt at the gates, Eraeth and Aeren nudging their horses forward to speak to the waiting sentries. A caitan of the Resue House Phalanx—also called the White Phalanx—stepped forward to greet them, and Aeren frowned, a shiver of dread coursing through his body. Resue was the Tamaell’s House.
The Phalanx caitan bowed formally. “Word of your arrival has already reached Tamaell Fedorem’s ears,” he said as he rose, “as well as that of your . . . guest.” The caitan’s eyes flicked toward Colin, conspicuous on his mount because of his shorter stature and darker skin, even though he wore the Rhyssal House colors. “He requests your presence in his private gardens.”
Aeren scanned the caitan’s accompanying Phalanx, all dressed in the white and red colors of House Resue, all standing at formal attention, faces rigid, revealing nothing. “I intended to visit my own House chambers, to wash the dust of the road from my face,” he said, “and to prepare.”
The caitan shifted, although his features did not change. “The Tamaell wishes to see you immediately. You may honor your House with your presence later.”
“Very well.” Aeren bowed his head to the caitan. “My Protector will accompany me. The rest of my Phalanx will retire to my rooms, along with my guest.”
The caitan returned the nod, then motioned to the members of the Tamaell’s Phalanx that accompanied him. They formed up around Aeren’s group, taking positions of honor, rather than a more formal escort, and Aeren relaxed slightly. A few remained with the caitan.
He shared a glance with Eraeth as the escort led the others away.
They were led through the sunlit streets of the first three tiers up into the enclosed fourth tier, the Tamaell’s public chambers. The halls were immaculate, leaves and vines threading up the stone columns set into the walls, murals and friezes around ever y corner, the ceiling painted to resemble the sky, pale blue, with clouds lining the horizon, the blue fading into a soft, brilliant yellow like the sun at intersecting corridors. Members of the White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s House guards, moved about among aides and couriers in House Resue colors, mingling with Phalanx bearing a few other House colors. Audience chambers, dining halls, and other rooms opened off to either side, filled with chairs and tables, plants and statues, all placed with elegant care, yet somehow ostentatious.
They ascended to the fifth tier. Aeren had only been into these upper rooms a few times. This was the Tamaell’s private tier, and it was significantly different. The walls were a flat polished white stone, the support columns rectangular but without detailed carvings. A few statues and urns and delicately pruned trees were placed in artful locations, lit by angled slants of sunlight from hidden windows. The ceilings were again painted in skyscapes, but the streaming cloud formations all swept inward, toward a central location, the outermost edges the pale white of horizon, shifting from a faint green to a deep blue, then to pale yellow—as if the clouds were tinged with the light of sunset—then deepening to pink and a burnished orange. Near the center of the array of rooms, the orange shifted into a shimmering gold, as if the central chambers were lit by the sun itself.
Spread throughout the chambers, stationed at corners and outside the Tamaell’s private doors, were pairs of White Phalanx, their gazes flickering over Aeren and Eraeth with cold appraisal, noting weapons and faces, even though they were accompanied by one of their own caitans.
They drew near the central chambers, close enough that Aeren thought the Tamaell had changed his mind and intended to meet with them in his own private rooms, but at the last moment the caitan turned into a side corridor, and within twenty paces they stepped out onto a wide, walled garden, a series of steps leading down to stone paths and a lush carpet of grass. A cascade of water from the mountain heights above splashed down from the rock face and spilled into a clear pool near the garden’s edge, a stream winding through the sculpted trees and shrubs and flowers before escaping through a hidden grate on the far side.
The Tamaell stood in a small grotto to the left, and Aeren was startled to see the Tamaea Moiran, his wife, kneeling in the grass beside him, calmly trimming one of the shrubs with careful, precise snips of a pair of pruning shears. Both were dressed in the white and red of the Resue House, but the style was casual, not the formal dress of the Evant. He frowned when he noticed Lord Khalaek sitting to one side, his attention on the Tamaell, whose gaze rested on the hazy distance.
“—what we have seen,” Lord Khalaek said, turning as the caitan led Aeren and Eraeth down the wide steps to the grass beneath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Aeren, “what Lord Waerren has seen, I should say, is a decrease in the activity along the Province bordering his House lands. He claims that the Legion has pulled back from the border. Not completely—they’ve left a small force behind in the major cities—but for the most part the Legion has retreated to the port cities. An increase in the number of ships being built has been noted as well, although of course these new ships are not expected to be complete until next year at the earliest.”
“And Lord Waerren believes this is due to the recent attacks on the human Provinces by the Andovans?” Tamaell Fedorem asked.
The caitan halted a short distance from where the Tamaell, the Tamaea, and Lord Khalaek had gathered and waited to be recognized. Khalaek’s black eyes had not left Aeren since he entered, but Aeren ignored him, focusing on the Tamaell, who still stood with his back to him.
The Tamaea had stood as they approached, and now she dismissed the caitan with a smooth motion of her hand, then bowed toward Aeren. “It is good to see you safely returned, Lord Aeren,” she said, and as she raised her head, something flashed through her gray eyes—a flicker of caution or warning, hidden swiftly behind her vibrant smile. She stepped forward to grip both of his shoulders and formally greet him with a kiss to each cheek. Before drawing back, her face turned away so that neither Khalaek nor Fedorem could see, she breathed, “Tread lightly,” so softly that Aeren felt the words against his skin more than heard them.
Leaning back, she scanned him up and down, noting the dust and dirt on his clothes with a raised eyebrow and frown. “After Lord Barak returned and informed us of what had happened in Portstown, we were concerned. Where have you been? He said you’d traveled by land from Corsair. Whatever for?”
“That,” Tamaell Fedorem said, “is precisely the question I would like answered.”
The Tamaell had turned from his perusal of the city. He regarded Aeren with cold green eyes, his face completely expressionless, his posture at odds with the relaxed setting, shoulders stiff, hands clasped behind his back. He looked older than Aeren remembered, his skin paler, yet darkened beneath his eyes, haggard with lack of sleep.
But not dulled. Aeren could see the hardness beneath the weariness, could hear it in his voice when he spoke.
“I thought this venture to the Provinces by you and Lord Barak was to begin talks about trade agreements.”
“It was,” Aeren said, aware that Lord Khalaek sat to one side. “And we succeeded to some degree. I’m certain he’s reported that a few of the Governors have signed tentative agreements that will need to be formalized before the Evant.” The Tamaell had begun to relax, but he stiffened again as Aeren continued. “But there was another purpose to the trip as well. I went to Corsair in the hopes of opening a dialogue with King Stephan.”
“A dialogue concerning . . . what?”
The Tamaell’s voice was flat, without inflection.
“The possibility of an alliance between the Provinces and the Evant, between humans and Alvritshai.”
Absolute silence fell on the small garden, interrupted only by the rush of the water from the falls behind the tower. Aeren kept his eyes locked on the Tamaell; he saw irritation crease his forehead, his lips twitch, before shifting into a frown.
“And how did King Stephan react to this proposal?” the Tamaell asked softly.
“He was . . . enraged.”
Khalaek snorted, but Aeren noted that the Tamaell’s shoulders sagged as if he were disappointed, even as he turned slightly away. “Did you expect anything less?” Khalaek said. “The humans are reckless, ruled by emotion, quick to anger, King Stephan the worst among them.”
“Because we slaughtered his father under the pretense of an alliance,” Aeren snapped, his anger rising sharp and unexpected at the derisive tone in Khalaek’s voice. He reined it in swiftly, his hands clenching at his sides. He felt Eraeth at his back, knew that his Protector had slid forward in mute warning in an attempt to restrain him, but the gesture wasn’t necessary. He hadn’t traveled so far to lose everything now because of his hatred of one lord, because of his hatred of that lord’s betrayal at the Escarpment.
Khalaek watched him with a cold, knowing smile, and Aeren realized the lord was trying to provoke him.
“That still does not explain why you returned by land,” the Tamaell interjected, and Aeren dragged his attention away from Khalaek, back to the Tamaell.
“When my attempt in Corsair failed,” he said, “I traveled to the plains and met with one of the dwarren chiefs, Garius of the Thousand Springs Clan. If we cannot find peace with the humans, perhaps we can with the dwarren.”
“And?”
The Tamaell had shifted forward again, all his attention focused on Aeren. Behind him, he could see the Tamaea, her hand raised, the shears poised to snip a branch from the small topiary shrub. But she’d frozen in mid-motion, her face locked in a frown.
To the side, Khalaek had stood, his stance defensive, as if he were about to be attacked.
Aeren drew a tense breath, then said, “He’s summoned the Gathering. They intend to meet with us, with the Tamaell and the Evant, in three weeks.”
16
T IS . . . AN OPPORTUNITY.”
Moiran spoke carefully as she moved across the bedchamber toward the window, afraid to let herself hope.
She pushed the heavy curtains aside so that she could look out over the city, to where the sun set on the horizon. Sharp orange light spilled into the room, changing to a burnished gold before it began to fade as the sun vanished.
Behind her, she heard Fedorem grunt.
She closed her eyes, then sighed and turned.
Fedorem had settled into the chair behind the desk shoved into one corner. Candles had been lit throughout the room, giving the translucent drapes on the bed an ethereal glow. Wardrobes flanked the bed, and in the corner opposite Fedorem’s desk, chairs were arranged around a low table for intimate conversations. That corner was Moiran’s. An abstract glass sculpture in deep red shot with streaks of yellow sat in the center of the table, but it was rarely used.
As Fedorem reached for a stack of papers, Moiran frowned. The desk was a recent addition to the room, brought in a few months after Fedorem had returned from the Escarpment. She had fought placing the desk here. She’d wanted this room to be theirs and only theirs, a sanctuary for both of them, without the taint of the Evant and the other lords upon it. But the Evant tainted everything.
Even Fedorem.
She let the curtains fall back into place, shutting out the darkness.
“What do you intend to do about Lord Aeren?” she asked. “About this meeting with the dwarren?”
Fedorem glanced up from his papers. “What business is that of the Tamaea?”
Moiran snorted, moving into the room. “Anything that may affect the stewardship of the House or my role as head of the Ilvaeran—the body that controls all of the economic resources of the Houses—is the business of the Tamaea. Peace with the dwarren could affect both. But more importantly, it’s the Tamaea’s business when it affects her Tamaell.”
His eyebrows rose, but not in annoyance. “And has it affected the Tamaell?”
“Yes, it has.”
“How so?”
A hard pressure seized Moiran’s chest, the hope surging up from her heart unwanted. She shoved it back down forcefully.
“It’s changed you, my Tamaell,” she said, searching his face. “It’s drained you.”
He stiffened, and she could sense his withdrawal, could feel him pulling away.
“Have you looked at yourself lately?” she asked. She moved to his side, took the papers from him, and caught hold of his hands. “Have you seen yourself? You aren’t sick, but you aren’t well.” She hesitated, but he hadn’t retreated, hadn’t withdrawn from her as he’d done so often in the last thirty years.
“It’s the Escarpment,” she said, the words thick, rushing up and out from the pressure in her chest. She felt his hands tense beneath hers, begin to pull back, but she tightened her grip and continued, relentless. “That’s where it started, there and the months before. You made a mistake, and ever since you returned from that battle, it has eaten at you, destroyed you from within. You need to acknowledge what you did, begin to make amends, and this is your opportuni—”
“Enough!”
The word cracked through the room, but Moiran didn’t flinch. Instead, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed.
Fedorem saw and sighed wearily. “Enough, Moiran. We’ve been over this before. I will not speak of what happened at the Escarpment. It has passed.”
“But it hasn’t passed,” Moiran said, surprised at how rough her voice sounded, how torn. She could hear tears she had never allowed herself to shed beneath the words, fought against them, overrode them with anger. “It will never pass, not when you refuse to speak of it. Not when you refuse to acknowledge what happened. Lord Aeren is trying to move beyond what happened at the Escarpment. He’s trying to correct it. You—” The words stuck in her throat, but she forced them out, tasting their bitterness. “You’ve buried it, ignored it, and look what it has done to you! You’ve become tainted by it! Controlled by it!”
Fedorem jerked his hands free from hers. “It does not control me.”
“Ha!” Moiran stepped back. “The event may not control you, but those who participated in it do.”
Fedorem’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Can you be so blind?” she asked softly. “After all these years of manipulating the Lords of the Evant, can you not see how you are being manipulated in turn?”
Fedorem flinched, a gesture Moiran saw in his eyes, more than in any motion of his body. And with that one gesture, she realized that he knew, had known, and had allowed it to happen.
“Aielan’s Light,” she whispered, her voice thready. All her anger had vanished. She felt hollow, even the hardness in her chest gone. “You knew.”
She turned away and moved across the room toward her own wardrobe, opening its doors and riffling through the clothes that hung there, not seeing them, the material rough against her skin. Her hands tingled, as if numbed, and she realized her entire body trembled.
“Who in the Evant is manipulating me?” Fedorem asked, his voice following her, laced with warning, yet somehow distant.
When she didn’t answer, she heard him rise from his desk, his papers forgotten, heard him cross the room and felt his presence behind her. She started when he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Who do you believe is manipulating me?” he asked again, softer. But she could feel the tension in his grip.
She broke free and turned to face him. “Lord Khalaek,” she spat viciously. “Lord Khalaek is manipulating you. He’s been doing so since the betrayal of the human King at the Escarpment, the betrayal that you have condoned through your silence. By not denouncing the uprising of some of your own lords, members of your own Evant, there on the battlefield, you have given those lords your tacit support. You have given those lords power. And because Lord Khalaek is at the center of those lords, you have implicitly given him power. The other lords, like Aeren, don’t know what to think, and because they are outnumbered by Khalaek and his supporters, they dare not approach you or oppose you. You are the Tamaell! You could have halted his rise in the Evant over the last thirty years. All you had to do was admit that your support of Khalaek back then was a mistake. But no. Lord Khalaek is using your stubbornness and your own mistake to control you.
And you’re letting him do it.
” She glared at him, not letting her gaze falter, knowing that there were tears in her eyes and hating them, knowing that the corners of her mouth trembled, even though her lips were pressed tight together. “He’s trying to seize the Evant, Fedorem. How often does he come here to Caercaern? How often is he here, in the fifth tier, in our personal chambers, our private garden?”
Fedorem’s hands lowered slowly, but she could see him considering what she’d said, could see him thinking.
“It has torn the Evant apart, my Tamaell,” Moiran added. “It is tearing
us
apart.”
And the tight frown that creased his brow gave her hope.
“Fedorem has called for a meeting of the Evant in two days,” Aeren said, then glanced up from the announcement to catch Eraeth’s gaze. His Protector raised one eyebrow in surprise. “All of the lords have been summoned, by the Tamaell himself.”
“Sooner than expected.”
“Yes. And the official summons is unexpected as well. Especially after seeing Lord Khalaek in the gardens last night.” Aeren frowned, troubled, as he let the paper announcing the meeting fall to his desk. He settled into the chair, heard it creak beneath him as he stared at the litter of parchment, the sleek feather quill and bottle of ink, without really seeing them.
Eraeth grunted. “What does it mean?”
“It means we will have to meet with the Lords of the Evant individually before the general meeting in two days. We have to convince them that it’s in their best interests to hear the dwarren out, regardless of what Lord Khalaek may be saying to the contrary.”
“Lord Barak will support you.”
Aeren nodded. “Without question. He is of the same mind as I regarding trade and the hostilities on the plains. But neither of us has as much power within the Evant as we’d like . . . or as we used to.”
Eraeth said nothing, but Aeren had already heard his thoughts on the descent of his House within the Evant. Part of it was due to the fact that Aeren had not yet bonded and produced an heir, and part of it was that Aeren himself was not as ruthless and ambitious as most of the other lords, especially Khalaek. His brothers, Atheraen and Aureon, had been both. No one had expected Aeren to ascend to lord of the House. Which was why he’d become an acolyte in the Order.
But even that wasn’t the real reason his House had fallen within the Evant.
“It all comes back to the Escarpment,” he said with a sigh. When Eraeth merely raised one eyebrow in question, he continued. “Since the betrayal of the human King at the Escarpment, Lord Khalaek and his supporters—Lords Peloroun, Waerren, and Jydell—have ascended in the Evant, with the support of the Tamaell.”
“The Tamaell has never officially shown support for any of those lords.”
Aeren smiled slightly. Eraeth’s voice had taken on the same tone he’d used as Aeren’s tutor when he was younger. “Not aloud, no. Unspoken support. And his unspoken support, along with those four lords, gives Khalaek the majority in the Evant.” His smile faded. “He should have denounced Khalaek and the other lords who attacked King Maarten at the Escarpment the moment it occurred. The battle had ended. An alliance had been made.”
“Unless the Tamaell knew of the betrayal beforehand, unless he intended to betray the King all along.”
Aeren frowned heavily. “That is the real question, isn’t it? Did the Tamaell intend the betrayal or not? Was he part of the plan?” He met Eraeth’s steady gaze. “I wish I’d been there with the lords at the end. I wish I’d seen how it played out. Then I would know. But I was . . . elsewhere.”
Eraeth said nothing to the roughness in Aeren’s voice. “And none of the other lords know, those who were there?”
Aeren shook his head. “None who are willing to challenge the Tamaell and Khalaek openly, and none who are willing to speak bluntly in private. They are afraid of Khalaek and the power he has gained, power given to him by the Tamaell with his unspoken support.”
“So who do you need to convince to help you in the Evant with the dwarren?”
Aeren stood, suddenly restless, the memories of the battle at the Escarpment unsettling him. “Not Khalaek, obviously. And I’ve done what I can with the Tamaell already.”
“Peloroun? Waerren and Jydell?”
“Peloroun will follow Khalaek’s lead. Waerren as well. But Jydell . . . he has shown some independence recently within the Evant.”
“Which only leaves Vaersoom.”
“I’ll speak to him as well. But his lands border the dwarren lands. He has faced more attacks from the dwarren in the past thirty years than anyone else, has suffered more losses.”
“But he doesn’t support Khalaek outright.”
Aeren grunted in agreement. He moved away from his desk, from the notes and correspondence of the Evant and the running of his House.
The room was meant as a meeting room, and it was where Aeren conducted most of the business of Rhyssal House while he was in Caercaern. Ornamental carpets covered the stone floors, and tapestries and a large map filled what little wall space remained between the numerous shelves full of books and artifacts—dwarren, Alvritshai, and human—that he’d collected through the years. But tucked against one wall, in its own little alcove, rested a small table, the Rhyssal House banner hanging above. Blue cloth covered the table in rumpled folds, and on top—
On it lay the memories of his family.
His hands brushed lightly over his mother’s brooch, silver with a white inlay of marbled stone. He touched his eldest brother’s knife, ran his finger along the flat of the blade, then skipped over to his second brother’s cattan. Fingers closed over the hilt, and he picked it up, pulled the sheath free in one smooth motion, the metal humming. A familiar tension pulled his shoulders taut as he remembered holding his brother’s body at the Escarpment, Aureon still clutching this blade, even as he coughed up blood from the wound in his chest. Aeren had tried to stanch the flow, had tried to save him . . .
