Well of Sorrows (54 page)

“The Tamaell has not told you?”

“The Tamaell has chosen not to inform me.”

He could leave. He knew that. He was a Lord of the Evant, and the Tamaea need not concern herself with the dealings of the Evant, of the lords and the Tamaell.

But Aeren knew that the Tamaell had something planned, Khalaek as well. He had Lotaern as an ally, and Lord Barak. Perhaps the Tamaea knew more than she thought.

He hesitated a moment more, staring into the Tamaea’s eyes, then said quietly, “To alliances then.”

The decision made, he felt as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

The Tamaea relaxed as well, her posture softening. “What news did the scout bring?” she repeated.

“He brought news that the human army—the Legion—has gathered on the border with over five thousand men, led by King Stephan. And approximately four days ago, they entered the plains, moving to intercept us.”

The Tamaea’s body froze, the only movement a slight widening of her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t even breathe.

Then she let out her breath in a low sigh, nearly a moan. “It’s the Escarpment all over again.”

Aeren frowned, taking a bit of meat from a skewer, chewing it thoughtfully. “Yes . . . and no.”

“What do you mean?” the Tamaea snapped. “All three races, coming together with armies at their backs, two of them under an ostensible agreement of peace—” She choked on her words, shook her head in frustration, turning to stare at the side of the tent. Aeren watched as tears glistened in her eyes, the only crack in the armor of rage she’d laid over herself. But no tears fell. She held them back, her entire body trembling with the effort.

Aeren let her grapple with the anger in silence, nibbling at his food. But he watched.

And sooner than expected, the hard edges of rage in her face softened, her eyes widening with dawning horror.

She turned to him and whispered, “What has Fedorem done? What has he planned?”

Aeren pushed his plate aside and looked at her. “I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he forged on. “None of the Evant knows, as far as I can discern.”

“Not even Khalaek?” The bitterness and hatred in her voice made him smile.

“Not even Khalaek.” He hesitated. “I believe Khalaek is playing his own game.”

“Khalaek is always playing his own game. What do you think it is this time?” When Aeren didn’t answer immediately, she asked, “Does it have anything to do with your human friend?”

Aeren felt his face go blank, unintentionally, a reaction learned on the floor of the Evant. “Yes and no.”

“You are too fond of that answer.”

Aeren smiled. “I have not shared this with any other Lords of the Evant, not even with the Tamaell. Mostly because neither I, nor Lotaern, knows exactly what is happening. But it seems to be connected to Lord Khalaek.”

“Lotaern knows?”

“It has to do with the sarenavriell.”

The Tamaea’s eyebrows rose, but she nodded for him to continue.

And he did. He told her of the warning brought to him by Colin from the Faelehgre. He told her of Benedine and his research, of his meeting with one of Khalaek’s attendants, of his death. He told her of the awakening of the Wells and what little he knew of Colin’s powers. He told her everything, including Colin’s return to the forest to check up on the Faelehgre and their progress and that Colin had volunteered to return again when they’d halted unexpectedly today.

She accepted it all in silence, staring down at her hands. When he was done, she looked up, her eyes more troubled than before, somehow deeper and darker. “And you have not told the Tamaell?”

He shook his head with a frustrated snort and shrugged. “Lotaern has informed the Tamaell of the awakening of the sarenavriell and the reason for the attacks on the eastern Houses by the sukrael. As for the link between that and Khalaek . . . what is there to tell? We have no proof of anything. And then—” He cut himself off.

“And then what?” She stared at him in confusion, and in her eyes he saw sudden comprehension. “You think the Tamaell may be involved somehow.” The realization was followed immediately by anger. “Fedorem would never conspire with Khalaek—”

“Wouldn’t he? What happened at the Escarpment, then? Can you say without doubt that he did not conspire with Khalaek to bring about Maarten’s death?”

That brought the Tamaea up short. He could see her struggling with words, trying to come to her husband’s defense, to the Tamaell’s defense . . .

But in the end, she sagged with defeat. “No. I cannot say that without doubt.” Her voice hardened. “But I
do not
believe that Fedorem is conspiring with Khalaek. And especially not with the sukrael or these . . . these Wraiths. I
refuse
to believe it.”

She said it with such vehemence that Aeren felt himself relaxing. He hadn’t known how the Tamaea would react to the implied deceit.

“Even if Fedorem isn’t dealing with the Wraiths, Khalaek is. And neither Lotaern nor I have any idea why.”

The Tamaea pursed her lips in thought. “Everything Khalaek has done since he ascended in his House has been to bring him closer to the Tamaell. He wants to rule the Evant.”

“He wants to rule the Alvritshai,” Aeren countered. “Is there a difference?”

Aeren didn’t answer. “What do you think the Tamaell will do about the Legion?”

It was not a question he would normally have asked the Tamaea. She was not a lord, was not part of the Evant. But the fact that she had called him here, the fact that she understood immediately what the presence of the Legion meant . . .

She watched him silently for a long moment, but he could not read her expression. All of her thoughts were hidden.

Like a lord.

“I think,” she said, then paused, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a weary sigh. “I think he cannot afford to ignore the presence of the Legion.”

Aeren nodded and found himself regarding the Tamaea with new eyes. “He can’t,” he said, and shifted so he could rise, gathering himself to depart. The Tamaea did not stop him. “He won’t.”

“Then we are headed toward war. Again.”

Aeren felt a flare of anger. “It would appear so.” He turned toward the tent’s opening.

“What about the dwarren? Will he still seek out the dwarren?”

Aeren paused, one hand on the soft material of the flap, holding it back.

In the corridor outside, he saw a flicker of movement, a blurred shadow, nothing more.

He flung the flap back completely, his heart pounding in his chest, his hand falling to the hilt of his cattan, the tent shaking with the force of his movement.

“What is it?” the Tamaea gasped behind him, surging to her feet.

Aeren ignored her, didn’t even turn. He scanned the narrow corridor beyond, the folds of cloth undulating in the light and shadows thrown by the lanterns of the room where they’d dined. But he saw nothing, no figures, no shapes. Nothing.

“Shaeveran?” he asked. His voice cracked with tension.

The Tamaea moved up behind him, stared out into the darkness of the tent around him.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I saw . . .”

“What?”

“A shadow,” he said, forcing himself to release the grip on his sheathed blade. He turned to give the Tamaea a reassuring smile but was startled to find her holding a thin knife defensively in one hand. Not one of the knives from the table. This was a fighting knife, one used for close personal combat.

He caught her gaze and saw the challenge in her eyes. She wanted him to ask about the knife, a weapon that no one would expect the Tamaea to possess, let alone know how to use.

Instead, he repeated, “It must have been a shadow.” Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she nodded. “Very well.” Aeren found himself reassessing her yet again. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push him either, moving away from the entrance of the tent. She set the thin blade on the edge of the table containing the remains of their meal. “Let us hope that when it comes to the Legion—and King Stephan—that the Tamaell acts with . . . discretion.”

Rising from his kneeling position, Aeren said, “Yes. Let’s hope.”

It was not a hope he believed in.

Two days later, Aeren and Eraeth were interrupted by the approach of one of the Tamaell’s pages. He halted a respectful distance away after catching their attention.

Aeren felt his chest tighten. “It appears the Tamaell has finally made a decision,” he murmured, low enough so only Eraeth could hear.

Eraeth grunted as Aeren motioned the page forward.

“The Tamaell requests your presence,” the page said with a short but precise bow of his head and shoulders, then added, “immediately.”

Aeren shared a look with Eraeth, and the bands around his chest tightened further. “Gather an escort, Protector. No more than four.”

Aeren and his escort halted outside of the council tent less than an hour later as the sun began its descent to the west. There, black clouds could be seen, the tattered fringes scudding toward the encampment. On all sides of the Tamaell’s tents, men were hustling to break down and pack away supplies, their actions frantic, and Aeren heard word being spread that the army would head out again within the hour. Servants were cursing, members of the Phalanx as well as they stumbled over them in their own preparations.

Aeren’s unease grew, but a moment later the page exited the council tent and said, “The Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive are waiting inside.”

He found the Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive sitting on mounds of pillows surrounding a large rectangular board of polished wood, a map spread over its length, held down with small lead obelisks at the four corners. Numerous other lead figures were strewn out over the map, and as Aeren moved into the room at a gesture from the Tamaell, he realized that the map depicted the entire length and breadth of the plains. Hills and valleys were shown, including the Escarpment. Settlements were denoted with black markings, human, dwarren, and the few Alvritshai villages established on the plains. Water sources were marked in blue, the forests in green. The rest of the map—the grassland—was shaded in various golds and yellows and browns.

The map was beautiful . . .

Except for the large black masses of lead figures in three separate locations across the plains.

With one quick glance, Aeren felt his heart shudder and closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly. He sent a small prayer to Aielan, then opened his eyes and met the Tamaell’s gaze.

“I see you understand the situation,” the Tamaell said, his voice heavy.

“Yes, Tamaell. I believe I do.”

The Tamaell nodded and motioned for Aeren to take a seat beside him, opposite the Tamaell Presumptive. Eraeth settled in opposite the Tamaell.

“King Stephan has left me no choice,” the Tamaell began. He pointed to the board as he spoke, moving from each massed group of figures to the other. “He’s gathered a large force of his Legion here, by our last accounting, and is headed toward the plains. I did not expect him to move, not when he is being pressed on the coast by the continued attacks of the Andovans in their attempt to reclaim their lost colonies. But those attacks
are
affecting Stephan’s army. He has not been able to gather as many of the Legion to him as he probably wanted, but he has certainly gathered more than enough to be a threat to us.”

“More than we have here in the envoy,” Eraeth murmured.

The Tamaell nodded, his expression grim. “Yes.” He turned his attention to the group that represented the dwarren, a frown creasing his forehead. “According to the scouts who have managed to get close to the dwarren gathering, there are more dwarren coming to the meeting than expected as well. Again, their force is larger than our own, around three thousand.”

“Which means it’s a true Gathering,” Aeren said. “For that many dwarren to be gathered together at once, there must be at least three clans represented, if not more. This means that the dwarren are serious about seeking peace. They could never have gathered that many clans together otherwise.”

“Unless they intend to simply overwhelm us,” the Tamaell Presumptive said.

Aeren turned to him, noticed how young he appeared. But not vulnerable. The time spent with the Phalanx on the borders had given the Tamaell Presumptive an edge, a hardness that Aeren did not remember seeing in him before he’d left. “The dwarren have never been able to work together before this.”

“Except at the Escarpment. And they were slaughtered there. Do you think that has been forgotten?” The Tamaell Presumptive shifted forward, his eyes narrowing. “I think it more likely that they remember, perhaps too well, and they—all of them—see a chance for reprisal.”

Aeren thought back to Garius and their meeting in the dwarren clan chief ’s tent. He did not think Garius intended vengeance.

However he could not say the same for Garius’ son, Shea.

“The dwarren are not that devious,” he said instead. “They are not a subtle race.”

The Tamaell replied. “No, they are not. But their intentions are irrelevant. I cannot ignore the presence of the Legion. Not this close, and not with those numbers.”

Aeren bowed his head. “You’ve ordered the envoy to intercept the Legion.”