Well of Sorrows (66 page)

22

EREN STOOD INSIDE THE TENT, at the head of the gathering of the Evant—only Lord Khalaek was missing—with the Tamaell Presumptive sitting to his right, Lotaern to his left, Eraeth and a few Phalanx from House Rhyssal and Resue behind them. Servants had brought trays of food, platters of cheese and fruit, and jugs of wine, passing them among the lords as they marched in from the field. Others eased their lords out of armor, while healers dabbed at wounds. Lord Waerren had taken a vicious cut to his upper arm and winced as it was stitched closed. Barak ran fingers through hair matted with blood, taking a proffered towel so he could wipe the grit and dust from his face. Each was surrounded by his House Phalanx, nearly everyone being tended, all of them grumbling or grimacing as they were poked and prodded. Moiran moved among them, helping where she could.

The day’s fighting settled over Aeren like a mantle, heavy and encompassing. Exhaustion dragged down on his arms, threatening to pull him to the floor. Weariness lay thick on his shoulders. He ached in places he hadn’t felt in thirty years, since the last time they’d fought on these plains. He wanted merely to retreat to his tents, tend to his wounds, as minor as they were, and sleep.

But the Tamaell Presumptive had called a meeting of the Evant.

As soon as the healers had finished and the servants had retreated, Thaedoren ordered everyone but the Evant out, including his mother, then turned and nodded at Aeren.

Aeren didn’t wait for silence, didn’t even wait until he had the lords’ attention. He simply said again, quietly, “We cannot win this battle.”

The reaction was instantaneous and explosive. The lords spluttered or growled, would have stood had they not been as exhausted as Aeren himself. Their protests escalated, until Lord Peloroun leaned forward and shouted, “Preposturous! How can you say this at this stage? We have only been on the field for a few days!”

“And how were you faring during those few days? How much ground did you gain before the dwarren arrived?” Aeren shot back.

The rest of the lords fell silent at the vehemence in Aeren’s tone, surprised. Aeren had never been quick to anger, but he was furious now. “We didn’t come here to fight,” Aeren growled. “We came here to
end
the fighting, to negotiate a peace with the dwarren. There was never any intention to stage a prolonged battle, especially against two separate armies on the same battlefield!”

“That was not the intent,” Peloroun said, voice hard, “but some of us knew that forging peace was merely a weak lord’s—a
diplomat’s
—dream, nothing more.”

Aeren ignored the slight. “And so you brought your Phalanx, nearly five hundred strong from your House alone by the time we’d reached the borders.”

“Two thousand more joined us while you and the Tamaell Presumptive went off to meet with the dwarren,” Peloroun said. “Or were you not aware of the reinforcements the Tamaell had arranged?”

“I was aware of them. And it is still not enough. Not when you factor in the loss of over two hundred Alvritshai on the battlefield today. Two hundred Alvritshai sent to Aielan’s Light!”

“Ha!” Peloroun spat to one side. “What does a diplomat know of war?”

Aeren drew in a deep breath to calm himself, glanced around at the other lords, saw some of them with skeptical expressions, clearly siding with Peloroun.

But a few were frowning.

He focused on Peloroun. “Think back to the field today, Lord Peloroun. Think back to the battle.”

Peloroun grunted and sat back grudgingly. “Our lines held.”

“Barely. The dwarren lines held as well, and the Legion provided a serious threat. They nearly broke through your own ranks on the northern flank. If not for House Duvoraen in reserve to bolster it, the Legion would have overrun Lord Jydell’s forces.” Some of Jydell’s men nodded in agreement.

“But it isn’t House Ionaen’s weakness that I wish to emphasize,” Aeren continued, and Peloroun’s eyes sharpened. “What I want to point out is that neither the dwarren nor the humans committed their entire force. Harticur—Cochen of the dwarren Gathering and commander of its Riders—sent only half of them to the front lines—”

“He was acting in defense only!” Peloroun protested.

But Aeren overrode him. “—and King Stephan kept over a third of the Legion in reserve. He sent a mere two hundred men to bolster his line near the end of the fighting today, and it nearly broke us!”

More grumbling and nodding from the rest of the lords and their caitans. Most were frowning now, at least two in whispered conversations, comparing notes and observations on the battle. They’d had little time to talk since it had ended.

Aeren wasn’t finished. With a sharp look at Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive giving an almost imperceptible nod, he said, “And then there’s the matter of supplies.”

Peloroun practically leaped forward. “Supplies are on their way as we speak. Arrangements were made before the convoy even left Caercaern.”

“We couldn’t have accounted for the occumaen. It plowed its way through the heart of our camp and nearly wiped out our current resources. According to the latest inventory, we have enough supplies with rationing to last for five more days. The next load of supplies isn’t scheduled to arrive for at least ten days.

“We’re outnumbered, and in another few days, we’ll be out of food.”

The silence that followed slowly gave way to muted murmurs. He caught fragments of a few of the conversations, lords verifying their own supplies after the occumaen’s passage with their caitans. Lord Peloroun leaned to one side, not taking his eyes off Aeren, to listen to his own caitan, and his frown deepened.

Finally, the mood in the tent now black and apprehensive, Peloroun said, “If what you say is true—and from what my caitan tells me, it is—then what do you propose we do?”

He already knew what Aeren was going to say, Aeren could hear it in his voice, but he answered anyway. “Withdraw.”

For the first time since the meeting had started, Peloroun surged to his feet, his face contorted with rage, with indignation, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, barely restraining himself from crossing the short distance separating them. “You expect us to retreat after the bastards killed the Tamaell?” he spat through clenched teeth.

Aeren opened his mouth to respond, but Thaedoren was the one who answered, his low voice filling the room, cutting everyone’s protests short.

“The humans didn’t kill my father,” he said. “Lord Khalaek did.”

Aeren counted three breaths before the shocked silence broke into a tumultuous uproar. The only Alvritshai in the room who didn’t react were Aeren, Eraeth, Lotaern, Thaedoren, and the Phalanx behind Aeren and the Tamaell Presumptive. After a closer look, Aeren realized that all of the White Phalanx with Thaedoren had been in the parley tent, had seen the Tamaell die. Each of them had tensed at the Tamaell Presumptive’s words, their stance rigid.

The group didn’t quiet until Lord Barak announced loudly, “I heard that a human killed him, that it was an assassin.”

“It was, but Lord Khalaek is the one who hired that assassin,” Thaedoren said.

“How do you know this?” Lord Peloroun barked. “I learned of Khalaek’s plans from Lord Aeren.”

“Ha! The Duvoraen and the Rhyssal have always been rival Houses! That proves nothing.”

Thaedoren’s gaze fell on Peloroun, narrowed slightly. “I thought so as well, Lord Peloroun. And it’s true that Aeren and Khalaek despise each other. It was for that reason that I ignored Lord Aeren’s warning. And now,” he said, standing slowly, so that he was on the same level as Lord Peloroun, taking a step forward so he stood directly before him, “my father is dead. But it wasn’t Lord Aeren who convinced me Khalaek was involved, it was Khalaek himself. I heard him speak to the assassin, I heard him order my death.”

The lords glanced toward each other, uncertain.

“Where is Lord Khalaek now?” Peloroun asked. “We should ask him what he thinks of these . . . allegations.”

“These
truths,
” Thaedoren spat. “So you say.”

“You would doubt the Tamaell Presumptive? Over a question regarding his father’s death?”

Everyone turned toward the new voice, toward Lotaern. The Chosen of the Order had said nothing since the Lords of the Evant had arrived, had weathered the few searching looks he’d received. Most of the lords had shrugged his presence aside, effectively ignoring it, assuming that Lotaern was here at the Tamaell Presumptive’s request.

Now, they regarded him with mixed curiosity, confusion, and subdued dissension.

Speaking carefully, Peloroun said, “I would question the word of one of Khalaek’s greatest rivals.”

“And yet, moments ago, you called Lord Aeren a ‘weak lordling’ and nothing but a diplomat.”

Peloroun sneered. “Oldest rivals, then.” He turned back to Thaedoren. “I would still like to speak with Khalaek.”

Thaedoren turned away, moving back to his original position, although he did not sit down. “Khalaek will be dealt with,” he said.

Everyone in the room heard death in the soft words.

“By the Evant,” Lord Barak interjected, a warning note in his voice. “He will be dealt with by the Evant, after this . . . altercation with the Legion and dwarren is resolved.”

Thaedoren stilled, but he said nothing.

“As for this altercation,” Lotaern said, as if the matter of Khalaek had already been agreed upon, “I believe that Lord Aeren has left out one important factor. Two actually.”

Peloroun’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “And what would those be, Chosen.”

“The first is another reason that the Legion poses a serious threat. They have more men, yes, and their supplies were not affected by the occumaen as ours were . . . but those by themselves would not be enough to sway me into the belief that we cannot win without something else.”

Impatient, Lord Waerren said, “Which is?”

“The reason King Stephan and the Legion are here, the reason they came to the plains in the first place: the death of his father and their King, Maarten.” He paused to let the words sink in, then added, “Stephan isn’t here to keep the Alvritshai and dwarren from forming an alliance. That’s a pretext. They have their own problems with the Andovans attacking their coastline. And yet, with no provocation, King Stephan came out here to the plains. He— and all of his men—are here for revenge. That is why they will be next to impossible to defeat. They came to fight because they have something to fight for.”

The lords sat back, exchanging troubled glances. Aeren closed his eyes and bowed his head, images of the previous battle at the Escarpment running through his mind. When he finally glanced back up, he saw similar pained expressions on most of the lords in the room, some tinged with guilt.

But that was the past. Nothing could change it.

Aeren turned to Lotaern, brow creased. “You said there were two factors I neglected to mention. What’s the second?”

Lotaern smiled . . . and yet Aeren felt himself shiver. “The second you could not have known about. You forgot to factor in the men I brought with me, the acolytes, the Order of the Flame.”

Peloroun snorted. “And what good will acolytes do us?”

“They’re more than mere acolytes,” Lotaern said, voice laden with a satisfaction. “They are warriors of Aielan.”

“You led us here, Cochen. We should fight! My Riders are willing, even if others are not.”

Sipa, clan chief of Silver Grass, sneered in Garius’ direction as the other clan chiefs grunted in agreement. Garius tried not to react, even though the yetope smoke in the meeting tent was thick and heady. Shea bristled beside him at the insult, made to stand, but Garius held him back. His son’s scathing look shifted to him.

“The Thousand Spring Riders are ready to fight,” Shea growled.

“We did not come here to fight,” Garius rumbled. He turned his attention to Harticur, the Cochen, who was the only clan chief standing, and repeated, more harshly, “We did not come here to fight the humans or the Alvritshai.”

“We did not intend to come here, to the Cut, at all!” Harticur retorted. His face was flushed from the heat of the tent and the fight to hold the dwarren line after the brutal death of the Alvritshai Tamaell. “But we are here now. We should seize the opportunity. The humans are not interested in us. It was clear on the battlefield. They lust for Alvritshai blood.”