Well of Sorrows (64 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
The size of the group had grown since they’d departed Caercaern.
“I find it troublesome that Lord Peloroun added over one hundred of his own House Phalanx to his escort when we reached his estate,” he finally said. “I could have let that pass without comment, could have accepted it as a mere precaution on his part. He has dealt with the dwarren on more occasions than nearly any of the rest of the lords. And as he said at the Evant, he has suffered more of their attacks. But then, at the border—”
Lotaern shifted at the change in conversation, then nodded in understanding. “At the border, we were joined by no less than one thousand of the Phalanx, composed of members of the Houses Duvoraen, Ionaen, and Redlien.”
“Precisely.” Aeren turned to gaze out over the hundreds of fires that now lit the night. “What began as a simple envoy has begun to feel more like an army. An army marching to war.” He paused, then turned to face Lotaern directly. “There are now nearly two thousand Phalanx in this envoy, five hundred of them the White Phalanx. When we left Caercaern, the entire envoy contained only four hundred. It’s begun to feel like a repetition of the Escarpment.”
Lotaern caught the undercurrent in Aeren’s tone and poured a glass of wine, forehead creased in thought. “You think this is a ploy, a means to get all the dwarren clan chiefs together in one place so that we can finish them off in one crushing defeat. You think Tamaell Fedorem intends another betrayal.”
“That’s exactly what I fear.” The words were more bitter than he’d intended, loud enough that Eraeth glanced over with a frown. “But I can’t tell. He had me convinced he intended peace with the humans at the Escarpment. Why shouldn’t he do the same again?”
“He doesn’t have the army gathered here that he had at the Escarpment.”
“Near enough. But he doesn’t need such a large army now. We’re only meeting with the dwarren. They aren’t expecting a battle, certainly not a battle of the extent we saw at the Escarpment, with all three races present.”
“True.” Lotaern traced the edge of his glass with one finger, brow creased with concern. “Whether or not we have enough of a force to handle the dwarren depends on how many of the dwarren are present at the meeting.” He glanced up at Aeren. “Do you know how many dwarren will be there?”
“At least as many as there are Alvritshai in this current . . . convoy. The clan chief I spoke to intended to bring all the dwarren clans together for the meeting. There are seven. If each chief brings his own force and escort—and knowing the dwarren, each chief will attempt to bring an escort larger than any of the other chiefs—it’s likely there will be more dwarren at the meeting than we have Alvritshai at the moment.”
Lotaern shifted. “You know that the Tamaell and I have not gotten along well together, even before the Escarpment, but we have always treated each other with the respect that our positions deserve. I did not sense any deceit in him during our own meal at the beginning of this journey. Perhaps there is nothing to worry about.”
Aeren grunted. “I had no worries at the Escarpment. Forgive me if I find it difficult to set aside my worries now.”
Lotaern didn’t respond, and they sat in silence for a long moment, the occasional exasperated sigh audible from Eraeth as Colin mispronounced a word or phrase. Aeren smiled when Colin bit back, Eraeth stiffening, both refusing to give ground.
“He is an interesting human,” Lotaern murmured.
“Is he?” Aeren kept his eyes on Colin. He remembered following the humans’ wagons as they made their slow trek east, remembered the first meeting at the small creek, where he’d exchanged the ceremonial offerings to Aielan with Colin and his father and the others. But it had always been Colin that intrigued him. “Eraeth tried to warn me away, but there was something about the human boy that drew me.”
Lotaern’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps it was Aielan’s will that guided you.”
Aeren reached down to touch the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. “Perhaps. It’s certainly been fortuitous. For all of us. We wouldn’t be aware of the Wells and the Wraiths otherwise.”
Lotaern stirred. “About the Wraiths . . .”
Aeren turned from watching Colin and Eraeth. “What?”
“We need to know where the Wells are located, and I’m not certain that those I left behind will find their locations in the Scripts in time, even knowing where Benedine has already looked. This boy speaks to the Faelehgre who guard the sarenavriell. He may be able to learn something more from them.”
Aeren turned to face the Chosen, saw Lotaern recoil slightly from the look on his face. “When Colin returned from speaking to the Faelehgre the first time, the black mark on his arm had grown. Somehow, the sarenavriell hurts him. I’ve seen the haunted look in his eyes, the tension in his body when he speaks of it. And yet, as soon as the convoy reached the plains, he offered to go back, offered to see if the Faelehgre have found out anything more. He’s already been to the forest and back once, and the Faelehgre have learned nothing new, except that the Shadows continue to hunt on their new hunting grounds and that the new Well continues to fill. They have not seen the Wraiths at all.
“I will not ask him to return again. He may return on his own, and he will inform us if there is news, but I refuse to allow him to hurt himself at my request.”
Moiran sat astride her horse, back stiff, as the army of Alvritshai lords and their entourages made their slow but steady crawl across the plains. Her position was near the front of the column, before the Tamaell’s wagons but not part of the Tamaell’s lead group.
Her eyes drifted toward Fedorem, where he rode his own steed at the front, surrounded by four Lords of the Evant, a covey of attendants, pages, messengers, and a slew of House banners, all vying for height and the wind that gusted across the plains.
Games!
She thought, her mouth twisting in distaste.
Games played by men with more ambition than common sense.
She thought, her mouth twisting in distaste.
Games played by men with more ambition than common sense.
She nearly grunted, her disgust with the lords and their manipulations rising. But then a group of the lords shifted their horses, and she caught sight of Thaedoren.
The tightness in her shoulders relaxed, and she released her pent up breath in a long sigh.
Thaedoren’s arrival in Caercaern had shocked her. Fedorem had not told her he’d sent for their firstborn son, had not sought her counsel since that night in Caercaern, when she’d confronted him over the Escarpment and Lord Khalaek. So when she’d come in from tending her gardens and found Thaedoren speaking stiffly with Fedorem, dressed in his Phalanx colors . . . Only when she’d felt the tension in the room, seen the hardness on Thaedoren’s face, the way he’d clenched his jaw, had the shock dissipated.
She’d dropped her pruning shears and gloves and embraced him. Thaedoren had stiffened in her embrace at first, his breath tight and controlled, but then he’d relaxed, pushing her back gently, allowing her to gather herself together, to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“I’ve had Thaedoren transferred back to Caercaern,” Fedorem had said from behind her, and she’d heard the disapproval in his voice over her display of emotion. “This meeting of the Evant is too important for him to miss.”
She could sense Thaedoren’s confusion. What had been merely a strained relationship between father and son, due to disagreements on how to control the Evant, had degenerated into public vocal arguments after the Escarpment. Thaedoren had always been more forthright than his father. And more honorable. He’d viewed the betrayal of the human King as a stain upon the Resue House, upon the Alvritshai in general. Fedorem had ordered him to the border with the Phalanx. Thaedoren had been more than willing to leave and had taken his brother, Daedelan, with him.
It was one of the issues that had driven a wedge between Moiran and Fedorem in those years following his return from the battle. His actions within the Evant, with Khalaek, had done the rest.
“It’s good to have you back,” she’d said, her voice calm, with no trace of the roil of emotion—elation, hope, and fear—she felt inside. Why had he recalled Thaedoren? Why now? Fedorem must have a reason. He did nothing without purpose.
She still had no answers when, a day later, Fedorem had requested her presence at the Evant. The request had prompted more questions, and now, a week onto the plains, with two days lost to one of the violent, unnatural storms slowing their progress, she still had no answers. Fedorem remained stubbornly silent, barely speaking to her when the army halted for the night. He spoke to Thaedoren, the two retreating to Fedorem’s tents.
The sudden change . . . troubled her. His actions were too close to those he’d taken before the Escarpment.
Moiran shifted in her saddle. Her horse snorted, picking up on her unease, and she quieted it by stroking its neck. To the side, one of her attendants looked at her with a questioning frown, but she shook her head, her brow creasing in irritation.
Ahead, one of the attendants surrounding Fedorem suddenly cried out in warning. Instantly, Fedorem was surrounded by the White Phalanx. The lords leaped into defensive positions, all of them facing west. The Phalanx set to guard Moiran reacted as well, closing up around her and her attendant, a few more taking charge of the wagon behind her.
Moiran ignored them and rose slightly in her saddle as the column ground to a halt, commands and warnings shouted down the line. She raised one hand to shade her eyes, shivering as the chill wind snuck down through the nape of her shirt.
“What is it?” her attendant asked, bringing her mount up close to Moiran’s. Her tone was breathless with fear, yet tinged with excitement.
“I can’t see—” Moiran cut off as someone on horseback charged up over a distant ridge. They were moving fast, and as they drew near, Moiran could see the lather on the horse’s sides. “It’s a rider, coming in fast.”
A horn blew from Fedorem’s position, and everyone relaxed, Moiran’s attendant heaving a sigh of relief.
“It’s one of our scouts,” the closest Phalanx muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”
“He wouldn’t have pushed his horse so hard if there were nothing to worry about,” Moiran said without turning.
The guardsman and her attendant frowned at each other.
The scout pulled up sharply in front of the lords and their forest of banners, then literally fell from his horse. A few of those nearest cried out. Lord Aeren and Lord Jydell dismounted and rushed to the scout’s side, helping him to rise. As they did so, the horse the scout had ridden heaved a shuddering sigh and collapsed to its knees, its tongue protruding from its mouth. Someone rushed toward it with a pail of water, but before it could drink, it leaned drunkenly to one side and fell.
Moiran’s attendant gasped again and whispered, “What happened?”
Moiran looked at her. “He rode the horse to death.” She couldn’t keep the condescension from her voice, and the girl winced.
More men rushed to the horse, but Moiran kept her eyes on the scout. With Lord Aeren’s help, Jydell trailing behind, he staggered toward where Moiran could see Fedorem through the crowd of bodies. She swore as she lost sight of the scout and Fedorem altogether.
She glanced at the Phalanx guard, considered ordering him to go find out what had happened, then shrugged the thought aside with disgust. He wouldn’t leave his post, not even at an order from the Tamaea.
The group surrounding Fedorem suddenly grew agitated, and she heard the Tamaell bellow, “Quiet!” The voices fell into low murmurs, but they still shifted back and forth.
The strain in the air was palpable, and Moiran edged her horse farther forward, trying to hear something—anything—to catch a glimpse of the scout, of Fedorem, of—
Her Phalanx bodyguard sidled his mount in front of her, cutting her off. She gave him a dark look and drew breath to berate him, but he said coldly, “Whatever it is, it’s obviously the business of the Evant, not the Tamaea.”
She could have insisted that it didn’t matter, that Fedorem would tell her, or Thaedoren, or that her role as head of the Ilvaeran and the steward of the House gave her the right to know, but she choked the words back. Because they would have been a lie. The Ilvaeran—commonly called the Lady’s Evant—might control the economic resources of each of the Houses, but it had little to do with the current meeting with the dwarren. And before the Escarpment, Fedorem had told her everything, or nearly everything. But since then . . .
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