Authors: Benjamin Tate

Well of Sorrows (78 page)

BOOK: Well of Sorrows

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When he recovered, he was no longer grinning. His face was harsh, caught between rage and a grimace.

He’d hurt him. Hurt him more than Walter had thought possible. Colin could see it in Walter’s eyes.

“I don’t have time for this,” Walter said, low and pained, but clear.

He drew himself up, wincing with effort, and considered Colin for a long moment, seething. Colin searched frantically for another weapon, but the only weapons available were being used by the Alvritshai, the Legion, and the dwarren surrounding them, and he couldn’t touch them, couldn’t drag them into his time frame. Not without restoring time first.

“I don’t have time,” Walter repeated.

And then he drew his hand away from his side, fresh blood spilling out as he released the pressure there and adjusted his grip on Colin’s knife. Turning it, he flicked his wrist and threw the blade.

But not in Colin’s direction, Colin realized in horror, even as the knife slowed in midair, returned to real time, no longer under the influence of Walter’s or Colin’s grip. Walter hadn’t thrown the knife at him because he’d known Colin could move out of its way after it returned to real time.

Instead, he’d thrown it at one of the only other people in the tent that Colin cared about:

“Aeren,” Colin said, eyes widening in horror.

Walter smiled grimly—

And then he blurred . . . and vanished.

A
WAVE OF WEARINESS WASHED OVER COLIN the moment Walter Traveled. He raised a hand to his face, his arms trembling, tremors coursing through his legs, wincing at the small cuts that riddled his body. When he tried to take a step forward, he stumbled, nearly fell—

And his grip on time slipped again.

Sound rushed back, motion, the sharp tincture of spilled blood.

Colin cried out, seizing hold again, his hands closing into tight fists in reaction.

It had only been a moment, but it was long enough for him to see the knife Walter had thrown fly toward Aeren, enough for him to see that it would hit the Lord of the Evant in the chest.

Breath hissing out through his teeth, Colin staggered to where the knife shivered in midair. Walter had been close to Aeren when he threw it. There wasn’t much space between the blade and Aeren himself, barely enough for Colin to slip between the two.

Colin reached out with both hands and grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled, trying to move it, to make it budge.

Nothing.

He growled in frustration, even though he’d known the gesture would be useless. He’d never been able to change anything once it had happened. He hadn’t even been able to brush the strands of hair from Karen’s eyes. He’d never be able to move the dagger.

But perhaps he could shift it if he just loosened his hold on time.

Steadying himself, hands wrapped firmly around the handle, he let the part of his mind that held time relax, just a little, like letting a contracted muscle release.

The blade slipped forward, slowly, the sound of the fight in the tent surrounding Colin like a low, muted murmur. He began pulling on the knife, applying a steady pressure, even as it edged toward Aeren. Sweat broke out on his face, and he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his hands and fingers cramping. The knife shifted forward an inch, then two, and Colin felt his hold on time growing tenuous.

He began to growl, the sound rising as he exerted more effort, until—the growl escalating into a roar—he released the blade and fell back, halting time again.

Panting, one hand rising to wipe the sweat from his face, he inspected the blade, its angle, its path.

Nothing had changed.

He spat a curse. Because now the blade was a handspan closer to Aeren. He could barely squeeze between the two.

Still cursing, he began to pace. “Think, Diermani damn you, think!”

He paused in front of Aeren. The lord was looking toward where Colin had stood, one hand still gripping Eraeth’s arm, hard, his grim, determined expression beginning to shift toward hope, the transformations subtle. He’d begun to turn, toward Eraeth, or perhaps Thaedoren. Colin could see it in the musculature of his neck, in the angle of his body. He had no idea the knife hung two handspans from his chest.

Colin couldn’t tell the precise location where it would strike him, but he could see that it would likely be fatal. It might miss the heart, if he turned fast enough, if the blade struck bone, if . . .

Colin sighed.

He couldn’t stop the blade. He couldn’t move it, and there wasn’t enough room left for him to deflect it once he restored time. The blade would hit Aeren in less than a breath, less than a heartbeat.

But he could let the knife hit something else.

Straightening grimly, steadying himself, he slid between the blade and Aeren, felt the tip of the knife catch on his shirt, then dig into flesh. The height put it near the level of his heart and he grimaced, thinking back to the time he’d used this same knife in an attempt to kill himself.

It had hurt like all hells.

But it hadn’t killed him.

He drew in a deep breath, felt the tip dig a little deeper into his chest. He shifted slightly, so that the blade was centered over the right side, so that it wouldn’t hit his heart. For a moment, he considered letting it strike his arm, but he needed to make certain it stopped, that it didn’t simply tear through flesh and muscle and hit Aeren anyway.

“And I can’t die,” he whispered to himself. He looked toward the heavens, raised one hand to grip Karen’s pendant around his neck, felt the sharp edges of the vow that he’d never been able to fulfill digging into his hand. “I can’t die.”

And then he released time. No slight relaxation like before. He didn’t need to feel the knife sinking into his flesh inch by inch, didn’t need to feel it cutting through muscle, scraping across bone.

He just wanted it to be over. So he let time go.

The knife punched into his chest with enough force to throw him backward, directly into Aeren. He screamed, the sound filling the tent, blending with the cacophony of blades clashing, lost among the blur of shouts, of commands, of battle cries that had been bellowed only moments before. White-hot pain shattered through Colin’s chest, exploded outward, so intense it muffled the noise, dampened his own scream in his ears. He felt himself falling backward, felt tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, heard Aeren shout as hands scrambled at his body, caught him and lowered him to the ground. His scream died down into a low moan, punctuated by sharper cries as the hands holding him jostled the knife before he felt the prickling sensation of dead, dried grass pressing through his shirt as they lay him on the ground.

“Colin,” Aeren said, his voice calm, but urgent. “Colin, can you hear me?” Hands tugged at his shirt, jogged the knife, and Colin hissed. Blood began to bubble up into his throat, choking him, and he realized it had become difficult to breathe.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Aeren muttered, “Aielan’s Light, what happened?” Then, harshly, “Eraeth!”

Colin opened his eyes, the light in the tent, the sun that glared down on the canvas above, too bright. So bright he felt his eyes watering. A shadowy figure moved into view, and with effort he focused, recognized Aeren, the lord joined a moment later by Eraeth.

“What’s he saying?” Eraeth asked.

“It sounds like ‘I can’t die, I can’t die.’ He just keeps repeating it over and over.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I told him to protect Thaedoren and he vanished, but before I could turn he fell into me, and—” Aeren broke off, then said, “Thaedoren!”

Aeren’s face slid out of view and he felt the lord moving away. The sounds of the fight intensified, the voices of everyone blurring into a senseless mess of Alvritshai, dwarren, and Andovan.

Colin swallowed the blood in his mouth, fresh pain tearing through his chest. He could feel the knife where it had lodged against his rib cage, could feel it scraping against one of his ribs. His entire right side throbbed, and he felt the blood soaking his shirt, felt it pooling beneath his back. His right side felt hollow, yet leaden with weight.

He swallowed again, his mouth strangely dry even though it continued to fill with blood, and he tried to speak.

Eraeth leaned forward, close enough Colin could feel his breath, could smell his sweat, dark and musky, like turned earth. “What, Colin? What are you trying to say?”

“Lift,” Colin gasped. He motioned feebly with one hand. “Lift.”

Eraeth’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression one of doubt, as if he’d refuse—

But then he grunted, shifted to Colin’s shoulders, and with more gentleness than Colin would have expected, lifted his torso up so that Colin could see.

He sought out Thaedoren first. Walter had vanished, but he had no doubt that the Wraith would try to kill Thaedoren again if he could. But Thaedoren stood surrounded by Aeren and at least three of the Phalanx, the group already beginning to retreat from the table, one of the Phalanx members dragging the Tamaell’s body with him. Colin choked, tasted still more blood in the back of his throat, swallowed it down.

The look on the Tamaell Presumptive’s face was terrifying.

Colin waved his hand, and Eraeth set him back down on the ground. Waves of heat washed through his body, and darkness had begun to edge his vision, a darkness tinged with a deep yellow. He fought it, not wanting to pass out, knowing that it was inevitable. It was how he’d healed when he’d stabbed himself in the heart in the forest, knew that’s how he’d heal from this.

But then Aeren knelt down next to him, Thaedoren standing above, looking down, the rest of the Phalanx surrounding them on all sides.

“Colin,” Aeren said, “what happened to the Wraith?”

“Walter,” Colin breathed. The darkness had begun to converge, the heated ache in his chest throbbing outward.

Aeren frowned in confusion. “No, the Wraith, Colin. What happened to the Wraith?”

Thaedoren sank down beside Aeren in a crouch. “We don’t have time for this, Lord Aeren. The dwarren are retreating, and the Legion is pushing us hard. I don’t know how long we can hold them here. And once they reach the field . . .”

He trailed off, but neither Colin nor Aeren needed him to continue.

Once they reached the field, it wouldn’t be a conflict between a select group from each race. It would be an outright battle.

Just like before. Everything that Aeren had feared, everything that he’d attempted to forestall, would happen again.

“Colin,” Aeren began—

But a spasm rocked through Colin’s chest. He gagged on blood, his chest rising from the ground as he rolled and choked and spat the blood to the side. Hands held him in place, kept him from thrashing around as he coughed up the blood.

When he settled back, his tongue sliding over his teeth, slick and coppery tasting, he saw a flicker of shadow.

Ten steps distant, Walter blurred into view at Lord Khalaek’s back as the lord and his men pressed the Legion forces back. Walter looked as bad off as Colin felt, perhaps worse, his hand clutching at the wound in his side, beneath his armpit. But he didn’t notice Colin, didn’t even glance to the side. His face—eyes sheathed in darkness, mouth drawn down in rage—never wavered from Khalaek’s back.

With his free hand, his sword now sheathed at his waist, he reached out, grabbed Khalaek by the shoulders—

And then the two vanished.

Colin held his breath, eyes going wide . . .

Then he rolled onto his back, stared up into Aeren’s face, caught Thaedoren’s hard expression, and said, “Proof. Need proof.”

“What are you talking about?” Aeren said.

Colin’s hands reached out, caught hold of Aeren’s arm and Thaedoren’s hand in a death grip. He didn’t know if he could take them both, or how long he could hold them there, not after the great effort it had taken to save Moiran, not with the knife digging into his chest, but he had to try. “Proof,” he breathed, then squeezed his hands tight, made certain he had their attention. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

And then he
pushed
.

It felt as if someone had taken the knife in his chest and ripped it out by dragging it down and to the side, tearing through bone, through lungs and muscle and gut, opening him wide. He wanted to scream, to shriek until his throat tore, but he knew he couldn’t, knew he had to be quiet, hoped and prayed that both Aeren and Thaedoren would remain silent as well, and so he clamped down on the scream, bit down hard on his tongue; he tasted fresh blood, but he focused on that small pain to take his mind away from the agony that his chest had become. And through that agony, through the exquisite pain, he felt the world slow and settle.

And he heard Walter’s voice, black and deadly.

“That wasn’t the original deal,” Walter said.

BOOK: Well of Sorrows

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