Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (56 page)
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
“I
T IS . . . AN OPPORTUNITY.”
T IS . . . AN OPPORTUNITY.”
Moiran spoke carefully as she moved across the bed-chamber 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?”
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.”
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.”
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