Well of Sorrows (50 page)
Authors: Joshua Palmatier
“What is it?” Colin whispered to Eraeth.
“The Tamaell’s heir hasn’t been called to a session of the Evant for nearly twenty years. He shouldn’t even be in Caercaern. He’s part of the White Phalanx, one of their caitans, and he’s been carrying out duties along the dwarren border since a falling out with his father. Each House has its own Phalanx and guards its own borders, but the White Phalanx augments those forces and shares the burden since the Tamaell’s House does not border either the human or the dwarren lands. Since their argument, Thaedoren has elected to remain on the border. The Tamaell must have recalled him.”
“Recalled him in secret,” Aeren added without turning, his voice drifting back to them. “It doesn’t appear that any of the other lords knew of it.”
Colin drew breath to ask what it meant, but at that moment, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive both took their seats at a gesture from the Tamaell. The attendant who had announced him rose and moved swiftly back into the line of Phalanx beneath the platform, all of the guardsmen now standing at attention.
Then the Tamaell began to speak, his deep voice filling the room. After a moment, Colin realized that Eraeth had no intention of translating the entire session, but he tugged on Eraeth’s sleeve and asked, “What’s he saying?”
Eraeth looked down on him with an annoyed glare, then said, “He’s introducing Aeren as the reason for the summons. In a moment, he’s going to hand it over to him. I won’t be able translate with everyone’s eyes on him, so shut up.”
Before Colin could react, the Tamaell motioned toward Aeren and then settled back onto his throne. Aeren hesitated a moment, head bowed, then rose and stepped out into the central oval.
When he finally spoke, his gaze circling the gathered lords, catching all of their attention, his voice was steady, slow, and purposeful. Colin saw the tension at the corners of his eyes and felt the same power vibrating throughout the chamber that he’d heard in the King’s chambers at Corsair. He struggled to understand what Aeren said, determined that he spoke of the dwarren and assumed it was about the meeting on the plains, but his grasp on Alvritshai was too tenuous. Yet he felt the earnestness behind the words, the conviction.
Colin glanced toward Eraeth, but the Protector was focused entirely on Aeren and on how the other lords were reacting. He sighed and settled back, began taking in the lords and their retinues.
The Chosen of the Order had been seated on the far side of the circle, opposite the Tamaell. He kept his attention on Aeren, but occasionally an attendant would approach and after a discreet pause, or when Aeren had turned slightly away, the Chosen would accept a note, or lean back to receive a whispered message. Often, he would simply nod, or his glance would shoot toward one of the other lords with a frown or small gesture with one hand. Only once did he actually murmur in return, the messenger scurrying back.
Colin followed this messenger with his eyes and grunted to himself when he realized the messenger had come from Lord Khalaek. The lord received the response with a dark, worried frown and glanced toward Lotaern, but the Chosen ignored him. Disgusted, Khalaek’s hand formed into a fist, his glance skipping toward two of the other lords, ones that Colin didn’t know, before settling on the Tamaell.
Colin didn’t know what was going on, but Khalaek appeared troubled.
He’d begun to turn away when a slight movement behind Khalaek caught his eye.
Someone had entered the room late and now shifted forward through the seats to join Khalaek’s retinue. He moved slowly so as not to draw attention to himself, like the messengers, but unlike the messengers, he came from the height of the room, not from those seated around the central circle of the hall.
Colin shifted forward and scanned the room, but neither Eraeth nor Aeren had noticed the new arrival. He turned back in time to see the man slip closer to Khalaek, standing back, waiting patiently to be acknowledged, something held in one hand. His face was turned away, but when Khalaek finally noticed him and leaned back, the man turned and faced Colin directly.
Brown eyes. Angular features. Short hair, but not short enough to be a member of the Phalanx, not long enough to be a commoner.
Colin gasped, the sound cutting through the growing conversation on the floor as more and more lords rose to question Aeren. Aeren cut off, turning toward Colin with a raised eyebrow, but Eraeth spun with a glare, one hand clamping down hard on Colin’s shoulder as he hissed for silence. Colin waved an apology, not daring to look in Khalaek’s direction.
When Aeren turned back to address the Evant again, Colin yanked on Eraeth’s sleeve hard enough that the Protector growled.
“It’s him,” Colin said. “The man who met Benedine.” Eraeth straightened. “Where?”
“He came in after Aeren started speaking and handed Lord Khalaek a note.”
“The note he got from Benedine?”
“I think so, but I can’t tell from here. Should I—?” He made a fluttering gesture with his hand, but Eraeth’s eyes widened slightly in horror.
“Not here!”
Colin frowned in disgust, but then his gaze fell on Lotaern. The Chosen was watching him with that same concentrated interest he’d shown before. The other lords may have turned their attention back to Aeren, but not Lotaern.
“Keep an eye on him as best you can,” Eraeth said, his own gaze flicking toward Khalaek’s location, but not lingering long. “I’ll inform Aeren.” He shifted forward, so that he stood beside the seat designated for Aeren, unobtrusive, but far enough forward to catch Aeren’s attention.
Colin settled in to watch the man who’d met with Benedine, conscious of Lotaern’s continued interest as a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck.
“—find it distasteful that you would presume to begin talks with the dwarren, let alone the humans, without first seeking the advice and counsel of the Evant,” Lord Peloroun stated. His words were civil, but the tone was bitter. “What of those of us who have lands bordering along the plains? What of our losses over the last hundred years? Do we not have a say in whether peace should be sought with them?”
Aeren didn’t respond at first, waiting to see if Peloroun’s tirade would continue, but the lord shook his head in disgust and returned to his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Aeren could see Lord Jydell and Lord Waerren nodding slightly. None of the issues brought up against his proposal so far had been unexpected, but the resistance he felt from the Evant was greater than he’d anticipated. Yet it wasn’t the lords that bothered him.
It was the Tamaell . . . and the presence of Lotaern. Fedorem had said nothing since he’d called the session into order and handed the proceedings over to Aeren. He sat in silence, even as the lords attacked him, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive to either side. Aeren risked a quick glance at the three, not certain what the presence of the Tamaea and the Presumptive indicated, but all three were watching him, waiting for him to respond. The Tamaea frowned slightly, but otherwise there was no sign of what any of them were thinking.
As for Lotaern . . .
He shook his head and turned fully toward Lord Peloroun. “I realize that the majority of the burden placed on the Alvritshai regarding the dwarren has fallen on you and those with lands along the plains, Lord Peloroun, but what I have to offer—what the dwarren seem willing to accept—is a release of that burden from you altogether. Would it not be beneficial to all concerned if the tension along the border eased? How many resources do you and Lords Jydell, Waerren, and Khalaek expend on guarding the border, resources that could be used for something productive, such as farming or the expansion of the irrigation canals?”
“But what of our losses?” Lord Peloroun growled. “What of the destruction the dwarren have caused? What of the loss of life, of family and kin, killed during the raids?”
“You would rather risk the lives of those who remain by continuing to fight, when there is a chance to end it?” Aeren let some of his own pain color his voice. “You are not the only one who has lost family to the dwarren. Do not presume to claim a greater pain than the rest of us—”
He would have continued, but a sharp gasp interrupted him. He cut off and turned to see Colin, eyes wide, Eraeth’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. The human caught Aeren’s gaze and held it, but then waved his hand in mute frustration. As Aeren turned away, he saw Eraeth speaking to him. Aeren turned back to Peloroun, his voice hardening.
“As I was saying, we have all suffered. I, for one, am tired of it.”
“But some of us are not,” Peloroun said, leaning forward. “Some of us have lost
sons
to the dwarren and are not so ready to forgive.”
“Some of us have lost our entire family to the dwarren,” Aeren countered.
Peloroun rose at the challenge in Aeren’s tone but before he could say anything, Tamaell Fedorem stood and said, “Enough.”
The word sliced through the tension in the room as smoothly as a blade, and everyone’s attention turned toward the platform. Aeren noticed that Eraeth had stood and moved to the edge of the Evant’s inner circle and made his way to his Protector’s side to clear the floor. When Eraeth drew breath to speak, he waved him to silence.
Tamaell Fedorem waited until he had everyone’s attention, the room falling utterly silent, then stepped forward to the edge of the platform, his face impassive.
“As Lord Aeren has pointed out, we have all suffered from this prolonged war with the dwarren and the humans. We have all lost loved ones as well as friends. We are not here to dispute that. And we are not here to determine who has suffered more or less than the others. Such a thing cannot be determined, no matter how long we spend in this room arguing over it.
“What we are here to discuss, and what we are here to decide, is whether or not it is time to seek peace with the dwarren. Lord Aeren has provided us with . . . an opportunity.” Fedorem smiled tightly and turned to the Tamaea, who bowed her head. “We have been at odds with the dwarren for nearly two hundred years, the war fluctuating, with intense periods of battle and long years of tension and general unrest. During these years, many decisions were made, all with the good of the Alvritshai in mind, even though in retrospect not all of those decisions were . . . wise.”
A low murmur arose, although it died quickly. Aeren shot a glance at Eraeth, eyes raised in question, but his Protector shrugged. He wondered if the Tamaell’s words refered to the decisions made at the battle at the Escarpment, but there was no way to tell. If they had . . .
If they had, then perhaps there was hope after all.
And as if he were answering that hope, the Tamaell continued. “We have lived in a period of general stability in the last thirty years, since the Escarpment. Mistakes were made then that cannot be easily rectified, but Lord Aeren has given us a chance to start. I think it is time to start.” He cast his gaze out over the Evant, catching each and every lord’s eye.
“There are those who will disagree with me. There are those who feel that what the dwarren have done in the past cannot be so easily forgiven. But I am not willing to let this opportunity pass by. Because of this, I will be traveling to meet with the dwarren, accompanied by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. In addition, I would ask that the Chosen of the Order be part of my escort, as well as Lord Aeren and any of the remaining Lords of the Evant who wish to take part. I will not require this of any of you, and those who chose to remain behind will not be censured in any way.
“But it is time for these skirmishes—these raids and this war— to come to an end. It is time that I begin to rectify the mistakes I have made in the past. If the dwarren are willing, if they are sincere in their offer, then it
will
come to an end.”
The Tamaell let the silence that followed his announcement hang for a long moment, the lords stunned. Then he turned to Aeren.
“I assume that you will agree to accompany me, Lord Aeren?” Aeren pulled himself out of shocked immobility and bowed formally. “Of course, Tamaell.”
Fedorem nodded once, then turned to Lotaern. “And you, Chosen?”
“Aielan has always, and shall always support peace. May her Light guide us all in this.”
In the end, all protests and disagreements were set aside as all of the lords, including Khalaek, agreed to take part in the meeting on the plains.
“Then it is agreed,” Tamaell Fedorem said. “We shall meet with the dwarren and their Gathering in two weeks time. Gather your escorts. We will depart in two days.”
17
HALAEK AGREED TO COME TOO EASILY,” Eraeth said in Andovan, so that Colin could understand.
“Especially considering that the Tamaell all but declared that his support of Khalaek and the others over the last thirty years has been a mistake,” Aeren said.
“He still has not answered the real question,” Lotaern muttered as he handed off orders for supplies to be gathered for the envoy to waiting acolytes, then turned his attention toward Colin, Aeren, and Eraeth. They’d gathered in his offices in the Sanctuary, the plants shoved to the side, the room bustling with activity. They were departing tomorrow at dociern, the second chiming. “He didn’t say what his mistake back at the Escarpment was. Did he plan the betrayal of King Maarten, along with Khalaek and the others? Or did he simply take advantage of the opportunity at the time and claim the betrayal as his own?”
When neither Aeren nor Eraeth answered, the silence unsettled, Lotaern grunted and continued. “But I agree. Khalaek agreed too quickly, and because he agreed Lord Peloroun and Lord Waerren agreed to come as well. And now you claim that Benedine’s actions are indeed connected to him?”
“So it would seem. The Phalanx followed Benedine to a courtyard on Brae. There, Benedine met with a man that Colin identified as one of Lord Khalaek’s aides.”
Lotaern swore. As he did, the hairs on Colin’s arms prickled, standing on end. He felt something brush past him, like a gust of wind, and he turned toward the open door to the Chosen’s office with a frown, a shiver coursing through him. He tasted dry leaves in his mouth, smelled damp earth. “What was that?” he asked sharply.
“What was what?” Aeren asked.
“I felt something, like a breeze. And I can smell leaves and earth.”
Eraeth had moved to the door, hand on his cattan, but he turned back now. “I don’t see anything.”
“It must have been a draft,” Lotaern said. “And we
are
surrounded by plants.”
Everyone looked at Colin, but the scent of leaves and earth was fading now, so he settled back into his seat. Eraeth returned to his position behind Aeren.
“I don’t understand the connection between Benedine, Khalaek, and the awakening of the sarenavriell,” Lotaern said. “It doesn’t make any sense. What is his connection to the Wells? Why does he want to know where they are located?”
“I don’t think he cares about the sarenavriell. His goal has always been control of the Evant. He wants to become the Tamaell.”
“The Wraiths.” All three Alvritshai turned to Colin, and he shifted under their scrutiny. “Khalaek may not care about the sarenavriell, but the Wraiths do. If Khalaek is looking for the locations of the remaining Wells, then he must be doing it for the Wraiths.”
“That,” Lotaern said, his voice heavy and dark, “it not a pleasant thought, and violates at least a dozen of the Order’s tenants.”
“Nevertheless.” Aeren had lowered his head in thought, then looked at Colin. “You said the antruel—the Faelehgre—thought the Wraiths were moving north.” Colin nodded and Aeren turned back to Lotaern. “Khalaek’s lands are north of the forest, to the west of Lord Vaersoom and Licaeta. It’s possible his lands were also attacked by the sukrael, and when he arrived to investigate—”
“He found the Wraiths.” Lotaern drew in a deep breath, although it did little to break the lines of anger that creased his face. “If this is true, then the Wraiths must be offering him something that will help him gain the Evant. But what?”
Aeren shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything that would warrant the risk of releasing the sukrael.”
“Perhaps you misjudge Khalaek’s ambition,” Eraeth said bluntly.
Aeren frowned.
Lotaern stirred and rose from behind his desk, his eyes narrowed in anger. “I think it’s time we spoke to Benedine about his . . . actions. He may know why Khalaek is interested in the sarenavriell and whether he’s working with the Wraiths.”
They followed Lotaern out of his personal rooms and into the corridors of the Sanctuary. Lotaern waved acolytes away as they made their way past the common areas and into the dormitories. Most took one look at the Chosen’s face and backed off.
“I’ve had Benedine’s activities here in the Sanctuary monitored since you arrived back in Caercaern,” Lotaern said as they arrived before one of the small dormitory rooms. “He keeps to himself mostly,” Lotaern said as he knocked. When no one responded, he frowned and pushed the door open, stepping through. “His main activity is research and—”
Lotaern halted, two steps inside the small room beyond. Colin heard his voice catch, saw his hand tighten on the handle of the door—
And then the stench of blood hit Colin hard. He gagged, stumbled backward into Eraeth, heard Aeren suck in a sharp breath, hand raised to cover his mouth, and then Eraeth shoved past them all. The Chosen shook himself, then stepped back out into the hall.
“Aielan’s Light,” Aeren gasped, breathing through his mouth. “What is it?”
“Karvel!” Lotaern barked, then called something to an acolyte farther down the hall. The acolyte leaped to retrieve a lantern, rushing toward them. He began to ask something in Alvritsthai.
He didn’t finish, the stench of blood and shit hitting him as he reached the doorway. He bent over, began to retch. Lotaern snatched the lantern from him, then stepped up behind Eraeth, raising the light high, his face a stoic mask, devoid of emotion. Colin and Aeren moved in behind him.
The room contained a rough cot, a single stool, and a small table with a few sheets of parchment, a tome, and a bottle of ink. A feather quill lay broken to one side. The tome and parchment and most of the table were coated with what looked like spilled ink.
Except it wasn’t ink. It was blood.
It saturated the blanket on the cot, dripped from its edge onto the floor, had formed a pool that continued to spread along the stones. Splatters of it streaked the walls in grisly patterns. Colin had never seen so much blood, and he felt his stomach clenching at the shock of it, at its dark, viscous color, its stench, the taste of it on the air.
Then Eraeth took a step into the room, and Colin saw what had caught his attention.
Benedine’s body lay in the center of the room, mostly obscured from view by the table and stool. But what he could see of the body made Colin’s stomach turn again. He tasted bile, acidic and thick, and he swallowed, hard, trembling as it burned his throat. The acolyte’s body had been slashed open with too many cuts to count, so many his clothes were nothing but tatters, the skin beneath not much different. He lay facedown, his back lacerated, the backs of his legs, his calves, shredded. His throat had been slit, his head to one side, his eyes wide, mouth open. Blood streaked the pale contours of his face, had matted in his hair and pooled in the hollow of his back. The stone beneath him had been stained black with it.
“How did this happen?” Lotaern muttered. Then he turned on Karvel and roared, “Find Tallin, or any member of the Flame. Now!”
Karvel, face still pasty white, staggered to his feet and rushed off, even though Loatern had spoken in Andovan. Lotaern turned back to the room, where Eraeth had knelt down next to the body. He touched the pool of blood, rubbed it between his fingers with a grimace, then stood.
“The blood hasn’t had time to congeal yet. This happened recently.”
“Who did this?” Lotaern growled.
Colin suddenly remembered the look on Khalaek’s aide’s face in the courtyard as he watched Benedine leave: cold and heartless. “Khalaek,” Aeren said. “He must not need Benedine’s help any longer.”
“Impossible. How did he gain access to the Sanctuary? I have acolytes guarding all of the entrances!”
Two acolytes dressed in the same robes as the others, but with a white patch of flames in the centers of their chests, charged down the corridor, faces tense. Colin was surprised to see they carried swords and saw Aeren and Eraeth trade a shocked look as well. These men did not act like acolytes. Their actions were tight, controlled, and dangerous, as if they were members of the Phalanx.
Lotaern stepped away from the room and met them. A heated discussion in Alvritshai ensued, one of the acolytes stepping into Benedine’s room, inspecting the body, then returning, his face grim. When Lotaern finally turned back to them, he didn’t look any happier. “They say Benedine worked in the archives all morning and retired to his rooms less than an hour ago. I don’t understand. Who could have entered the Sanctuary, killed Benedine, and left, without being noticed?”
Colin thought of the taste of leaves and earth. “Maybe it wasn’t a person,” he said softly.
Lotaern, Aeren, and Eraeth stilled. “What do you mean?” Eraeth asked. “The Wraiths,” Aeren answered.
“Here? In Caercaern?” Lotaern spat, his eyes darkening. “In the Sanctuary?”
Colin heard the doubt in his voice, saw it in Aeren and Eraeth’s eyes as well. He drew a steadying breath, regretted it as another wave of nausea swept through him at the smell of the blood, then said, “I can find out.”
All three Alvritshai stilled. Even the two members of the Flame, the acolytes who were not acolytes, traded a glance and shifted uncomfortably at the sudden stillness.
“How?” Lotaern asked.
Colin glanced toward Aeren, who merely nodded. “I can travel back to the moment he was killed. I can see who killed him.”
Lotaern’s eyes widened, flickered toward Aeren a moment, then back. “Then do it.”
Colin closed his eyes and drew into himself, straightened . . . and then
pushed.
Time slowed, and he approached the barrier that separated the present from the past. Gathering himself, he shoved through it, his skin tingling as it ruptured around him, and then he waded backward into the past. The acolyte guards retreated, and as Lotaern and Eraeth stepped away from the doorway, Colin slid inside, stepping around the body, even as Lotaern shut the door, closing Colin in with Benedine’s body. He tried not to shudder as he moved to the far side of the room, and then he pushed again. Hard.
And sank back into time too fast. The room blurred, a smear of sudden, violent movment that made him queasy. When he finally stabilized it, he found Benedine sitting at his desk, quill in hand, as he worked on the tome before him.
He kept time stationary for a moment, to catch his equilibrium, then moved around to see what Benedine was working on. The tome was yellow with age, the pages stiff, the text written in a tight scrawl with long, nearly vertical letters, interspersed with amazingly detailed pictures. Benedine had copied a few phrases from the book onto his sheet of parchment and was turning the page, his brow creased in concentration.
Unable to read the Alvritshai words, Colin allowed time to resume and stepped back.
Benedine flipped the page and sighed heavily before leaning forward to read. One hand rose to knead his forehead.
Colin smelled the Wraith before he saw it, the same scent he’d caught while they’d been speaking in Lotaern’s rooms—leaves and earth: the Lifeblood.
A moment later, the door to Benedine’s room opened.
Colin caught a flicker of darkness, of shadow, but nothing more. He doubted Benedine had seen even that. Even as the acolyte spun, the door closed, with another smear of shadow.
Face pinched in confusion, Benedine began to rise. He’d only made it halfway up when the Wraith appeared at his side, completely visible for half a breath. No longer draped in the cloak of the Shadows, he wore a dark gray shirt and muddied breeches, a cloak with a hood pulled up over his head, obscuring his face, and boots. He carried a dagger. And he was human.
In that single half-breath, the Wraith slashed along Benedine’s arm, then vanished. Benedine cried out, stumbled forward over his desk, the quill snapping in his hand as he tried to catch himself, the stool he’d been sitting on rattling to the floor behind him. The Wraith flickered into view on his other side, slashed at him again, this time across the face, blood flying in a smooth arc to splatter agains the wall. Gasping, Benedine shoved away from the desk, half turned, but the Wraith was there, cutting into his arm, vanishing, reappearing two steps away to cut again. Benedine cried out at every cut, spinning around, bewildered, unable to follow the flickering movements of the Wraith. Blood flew in every direction, the cuts getting deeper and deeper. Benedine tried to make it to the door with a strangled scream, but the Wraith slashed the back of his calf, and he stumbled to his hands and knees. Slices appeared all along his back, his sides, the Wraith no more than a blur, and as Benedine arched back, arms raised to ward off his tormentor, the Wraith appeared behind him.
Colin stepped forward, even though he knew he couldn’t change anything, knew he couldn’t stop it.
Gripping the acolyte’s head, yanking it backward, the Wraith cut Benedine’s throat. Blood fountained down over the acolyte’s shredded robes, drenching the bed, splattering onto the floor. Even as Colin gagged, the stench overpowering, the Wraith thrust Benedine’s body forward and stepped toward the door. Colin’s knees grew weak, the shock of the violence—all happening in the space of a dozen heartbeats—hitting him hard. He lost his hold on time, felt it shove him forward, the aftermath of the attack as the Wraith departed a smear of action, and then he fell to his hands and knees and vomited onto the acolyte’s stone floor.
