Well of Sorrows (62 page)

Aeren drew in a deep breath, glancing around at the rest of the escort gathered, including those who would wait outside the tent. They held the banners of those present—the black and gold talon of House Duvoraen; the white and red eagle rampant of House Resue, the Tamaell’s colors; and the blue and red wings of Aeren’s own House Ryhssal. The dwarren shaman stepped forward, chanting as he gestured with the feathered spear he carried and spread what Aeren had verified were tiny grass seeds into the wind. Aeren caught King Stephan muttering impatiently to his commander, both of their expressions dark. Aeren had learned the commander’s name was Tanner Dain.

And then the shaman stepped back, his chant dying. Tamaell Fedorem turned to Aeren and nodded.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aeren stepped toward the tent, Eraeth and Colin following in his wake. He saw representatives from each of the other two races doing the same.

The tent had four entrances, each one leading to a small room sectioned off from the large interior where the same wide, low table the dwarren had used in the previous meeting tent had been set up. There were no chairs on the dwarren’s side of the table, and none on the Alvritshai side, but when Aeren stepped past the fold separating the entrance chamber to the main room, he noticed the human King had brought in three wooden seats. Pillows had been positioned for the Tamaell and the Cochen of the dwarren, with a few set to either side for those that accompanied them. In the center of the table sat a shallow bowl containing a sheaf of grain, a few eagle feathers, and assorted fruits. Otherwise, the tent and table were bare.

Even as Eraeth and Colin emerged from the outer room, Colin using his staff to push the tent flap aside, Aeren caught the whiff of smoke, followed by the incense the dwarren used. But the braziers he’d seen in the dwarren’s meeting tent were absent.

“They must have lit one inside their own chamber,” Eraeth murmured, nodding toward the southern side of the tent.

Even as he spoke, a clan chief Aeren was unfamiliar with stepped into the room, followed by three others. He glared at Aeren, arms crossed over his chest, then scanned the room.

The entire tent shook as the Legionnaire Tanner Dain shoved through. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword meaningfully, frowning as he caught sight of Aeren, his stance shifting slightly, more on guard. When two other Legionnaires entered behind him, he motioned toward the table.

They inspected the room, even though they’d already sent in one person to look things over, then fell back to Tanner’s side without comment. He spoke to one in a whisper; the man ducked back outside, but Tanner kept his attention fixed on Aeren and the dwarren clan chief.

“Tell the Tamaell that everything is ready,” Aeren said.

Eraeth grunted, gave Tanner one last dark glance, then slipped through to the outer room.

The dwarren clan chief simply nodded. He hadn’t moved since he’d entered.

King Stephan arrived first. He wore a yellow shirt, a sheaf of wheat—like the one in the bowl in the center of the table, Aeren noted—embroidered in black on the front, the contrast stark. The shirt was formal, but plain, with no frills around the cuffs or neck and nothing adorning the shoulders, as Aeren knew the Andovans favored. This was practical, and with a shiver Aeren realized that the King wore armor beneath.

Stephan straightened, his gray eyes taking in Aeren, Colin, and the dwarren with one casual sweep, while one of the guardsmen held the tent flap back as what Aeren guessed was one of the Governors followed in the King’s wake, six other Legionnaires coming in after him. The King moved to the central chair and sat, Tanner and the Governor taking the other two seats. The rest of the Legion spaced themselves out behind them.

Even with eight guardsmen behind him, Aeren knew that Stephan posed the biggest threat. Each of the humans carried a sword, and they all radiated a cold, wary hostility.

Harticur entered next, followed by Thaedoren, Garius, and two other clan chiefs. Three other Riders joined the two dwarren already present, as Thaedoren nodded at Harticur and moved around to the Alvritshai side. Stephan watched the interaction with a suspicious glare, his hands clenched where they rested on the arms of his chair, but Thaedoren ignored him. The rest of the clan chiefs moved to the edge of the table and sat, but Harticur remained standing.

“Lord Aeren,” Thaedoren murmured in greeting. His gaze flicked toward Colin, brows rising in slight surprise. “Was bringing him here a wise choice?” He nodded minutely toward Stephan and the Legion. “We could have used one more of the Phalanx, if things go bad.”

“One more member of the Phalanx would mean little.”

“Perhaps. Or it could mean the difference between life and death.”

Aeren was spared a response as Eraeth returned, holding the tent flap aside as the Tamaell, Khalaek, and the rest of the escort arrived. Khalaek seemed unnaturally nervous, his gaze darting about the room as if he were searching for something, his hand never far from his cattan. The casual smile he’d given Aeren outside had vanished, replaced by a hard expression, grim and apprehensive.

The Tamaell appeared grim as well. He wore a simple red and white shirt over light armor, his cattan strapped to his side. He took his place at the eastern end of the table, the western edge remaining empty.

Nodding formally to both Stephan and Harticur, he said, “I thank you both for coming—”

Before he could finish, Aeren caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a flicker, a blur of shadow. He frowned, a coldness lancing into his gut, a frisson of warning. Behind him, he heard Colin shift forward, heard the human say, “Wait,” in startled confusion—

And then something splattered across his face, across his chest, something hot and fluid, soaking instantly through his clothing to his skin.

He jerked back, blinked, one hand already rising to touch whatever had struck his cheek—

And then he froze in mid-motion, eyes locked on the blackcloaked figure that stood before the Tamaell, one gloved hand fisted in the Tamaell’s shirt over his chest, holding him upright and close, the other finishing the sweep of the blade across Fedorem’s neck. The figure’s face was hidden beneath a cowl, the hood drawn down, but Aeren caught the impression of human clothing beneath, a shirt styled like the Provinces, the glitter of a belt buckle, a sword’s sheath.

He saw it all in the space of a heartbeat. Then the shadowed figure released the Tamaell, almost disdainfully, and with a smeared blur he vanished.

In the shocked, confused silence that followed, there was no sound except the patter of blood as it flew from a blade that was no longer there, as it gushed from the Tamaell’s throat, coating the front of his shirt, his head thrown slightly back. It struck the table, hit the shallow bowl in the center, staining the sheaf of wheat, the eagle’s feathers, the fruit.

Aeren felt his entire body go numb, his hands tingling, his heart stilled in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. A roar filled his ears, like the wind of the plains, harsh and hollow and constant, a howl that drowned out everything.

And then the Tamaell dropped to his knees and toppled forward. His torso struck the table with a sickening, meaty thunk, his head cracking into the side of the wooden bowl. It flipped, the wheat and feathers and fruit scattering.

The clatter of the bowl coming to rest broke the silence. Khalaek leaped forward, cattan sliding from its sheath in one smooth motion. “We’ve been betrayed!”

His roar filled the tent and sent a shudder through Aeren’s chest, down into his gut. He heaved in a broken gasp even as the Phalanx who stood at the back of the tent surged forward with answering roars, charging onto the table toward the dwarren and the Legion. Blades snicked from sheaths as both the human guardsmen and the dwarren Riders sprang forward to protect their rulers. Aeren stepped back from the sudden din of shouts, of battle cries, of blades striking blades and hatred being unleashed.

Then a hand latched onto his arm and jerked him around. He cursed, one hand going automatically to his cattan, half drawing it before he recognized Eraeth’s face. “Get back!” his Protector bellowed. He thrust Aeren against the side of the tent, where Colin stood, wide-eyed with horror, then stepped in front of them both, cattan already readied.

The blur, the figure, the Tamaell . . .

Aeren sucked in shocked breath and murmured, “A Wraith.” He reached forward and grabbed Eraeth’s arm. “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” But before he finished, he realized that neither he nor Eraeth could protect the Tamaell Presumptive. Not from what had killed Fedorem, not against a Wraith.

Only one of them had a chance. He spun and yelled, “Colin!”

The human caught his gaze, and Aeren saw the realization sink in through the shock, the same realization he’d come to.

Then Colin blurred . . . And vanished.

A moment before the Wraith appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, Colin had felt a disturbance in the air, like a breeze. The hairs on his arms had prickled and risen. Something stabbed into his left arm, where the black mark from the Well swirled beneath his skin, pain searing up from his wrist to his elbow. He’d hissed, clutched at the arm with his other hand, turned to the side—

And then he’d smelled the Lifeblood: earth and leaves and snow.

One of the Phalanx behind them met his gaze. He stood near the entrance to the inner room where the three races were meeting, one hand holding the flap of the tent to one side, and as their eyes met, Colin felt a shock of recognition pierce through him.

Khalaek’s aide. The one who’d met Benedine in the courtyard. He heard the Tamaell begin to speak, heard his voice cut off. “Wait,” he muttered, as a stunned silence settled over the room, broken by another sound, the sound of rain, of droplets hitting wood and grass and cloth.

He caught a glimpse of the Wraith . . . and then it vanished. His hand tightened on his staff, his eyes going wide.

He’d known the Wraiths had left the forest, but the sight of the Wraith there, in the tent, cloaked in shadows—

His chest squeezed tight, so tight he couldn’t breathe, a strange, queasy, fluid warmth settling in his gut, making his legs tremble with weakness.

The Tamaell’s body fell. He heard Khalaek shout, felt the Phalanx around him charge forward, but everything was removed and muted. Eraeth pulled Aeren back from the escalating fray, blades and shouts filling the tent, and still the warm, tingling weakness filled him.

And then he heard Aeren cry out, “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” The Lord of House Rhyssal paused, one hand still clutching Eraeth’s arm . . . and then he spun, eyes intense with fear, with determination. “Colin!”

It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

With a sickening sensation, Colin felt the numbness break. No one here had any hope of stopping the Wraith. No one
could
stop it.

Except him.

And Khalaek wanted to Ascend. He wanted the Evant. It wouldn’t be enough to kill the Tamaell. He’d need to kill the Tamaell Presumptive as well.

Colin’s jaw clenched, and without even a nod in Aeren’s direction, he
pushed
.

The world slowed instantly, so fast Colin gasped. He’d shoved harder than he’d intended, but he didn’t pause to steady himself, didn’t even twitch at the sharp pain that shot through his side like a runner’s cramp. The mark on his arm flared with pain again as he spun, centering on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive frozen in mid-motion, sword drawn, rising to strike at one of the Legion, the man’s face twisted with rage, Thaedoren’s face cold. The Wraith stood directly behind Thaedoren. Even as Colin watched, it brought its sword around to strike. A pressure built, prickling along Colin’s skin, as the Wraith prepared to slip back into real time, the tip of its sword angled now toward Thaedoren’s back.

Colin reacted without thought. His staff swung in a wide arc, whirring through the tight confines of the tent and cracking into the Wraith’s neck.

The Wraith staggered, lurched to one side, then spun, sword flicking out to parry Colin’s second swing. Metal met wood with a solid thwack, and a chunk of Colin’s staff broke free. It slowed as it lost contact with the heartwood of the staff, froze in midair, returning to real time, but the Wraith didn’t give Colin enough time to recover. It lashed out, sword nothing but a blur, going for his stomach.

Colin sucked in a breath as he stumbled backward, his staff whipping around to shunt the Wraith’s blade aside. He cried out as he felt metal slicing through his clothing and into the skin at his side, but he ignored the flare of pain, bringing his staff up and around, trying to fling the sword from the Wraith’s grip so it would return to real time like the chunk torn from his staff, but the Wraith merely grunted and turned into the staff ’s motion. Shifting his grip, Colin brought the bottom down toward the Wraith’s feet.

Heartwood shuddered as it struck flesh, and the Wraith shouted in pain as its leg folded and it fell to one knee, half-turned away. Colin threw himself backward as it pivoted, swinging its entire body around with a low growl, sword flashing through where Colin had stood a moment before, its cloak flaring.