Aeren gripped the reins tightly, but he refused to be baited. “The Tamaell Presumptive is following behind us, with the rest of the escort. We were sent ahead to speak to the Tamaell.”
Khalaek’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, his previous mild amusement gone. “About what?”
“That is for the Tamaell alone.”
Khalaek said nothing, but Aeren could see him considering options. His dark eyes flicked toward Colin, standing far back in the group, as unobtrusive as possible, then toward the south and east, the direction he knew they’d come from, but the plains were empty there.
Not satisified, Khalaek motioned toward the battle. “As you can see, the Tamaell is currently occupied.”
“And he left you behind,” Aeren said. “Interesting.”
Khalaek twitched the reins he held in one hand, his horse shuffling at the movement. “Someone needs to protect the Tamaea. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, now would we?”
Eraeth shifted forward at the underlying threat, but Aeren didn’t react.
To the west, battlehorns cried out, distantly. A gust of wind pushed past them and sent the pennant that Khalaek’s sortie carried flapping. Aeren and Khalaek held each other’s gazes, the hatred between them palpable. Aeren could taste it.
But a ripple of strange but familiar movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to the east with a frown—
And the bitterness and hatred bled out of him in one shocked breath. “Aielan’s Light,” he said, voice filled with a terrified awe.
“What is it?” Khalaek demanded, voice tinged with anger and doubt, as if he thought Aeren’s gasp some kind of trick. But then he turned.
Aeren saw him stiffen in his saddle, then spit a curse under his breath. On all sides, the sortie and Aeren’s escort gasped, Eraeth edging his horse out in front of Aeren reflexively.
On the plains, still distant but approaching fast, one of the occamaen—what Lotaern would call a “breath of heaven,” and what Colin called a Drifter—slid toward them. It was beautiful in a way, its rippled distortions stretching high into the sky and even farther to either side, its center clear, like an eye. Through that eye, Aeren could see the plains beyond . . . but altered. Sunlight glowed on the horizon there, the clouds in the sky suffused with a purpleorange haze, the grass on the ridges a vibrant, spring green, waving in a contrary wind.
Aeren glanced up at the sun that glared down on the autumndead grass at his feet and shuddered. The juxtaposition—two suns, one setting, one angled an hour after midday; early spring grass against late autumn—twisted in his stomach.
“It’s huge,” Eraeth said.
“And it’s headed straight for the camp,” Khalaek hollered. He spun his mount and roared out orders, his sortie breaking into two groups, one headed toward where the occumaen bore down on the camp from the east, the other, including Khalaek, headed toward the rest of Khalaek’s men on the ridge behind them, both groups shouting and pointing as they charged their horses across the grass. The men on the ridge hadn’t seen the danger yet, were watching either the battle below or the confrontation with Aeren. After a moment of confusion, they turned . . . and then broke into sudden motion as Khalaek arrived. Horns sounded, piercing the air, frantic and warbly. In the camp below, men and women turned from whatever task they were doing in confusion, but they couldn’t see the occumaen, not within the confines of the tents and wagons.
Aeren swore. They weren’t reacting fast enough. The occumaen bore down with silent, deadly grace. And with sudden dawning horror, Aeren realized Eraeth had been right. It was huge, large enough and wide enough to encompass at least half the camp, if not more.
“What do we do?” Eraeth asked, and Aeren latched onto his strangely calm voice.
Thinking furiously, cursing the small number of Phalanx he’d brought with him, he scanned the growing chaos in the camp below as Khalaek’s men fanned out, charging into the tents still mounted, shoving and herding people outward, away from the occumaen’s path.
And then his gaze fell on the white and red banners near the center of the camp. The Tamaell’s banners.
His eyes widened. “The Tamaea.”
Eraeth reacted faster than he did, spinning and shouting, “Colin!”
Without any hesitation, Colin shifted and blurred.
Colin raced down the slope toward the camp, time slowed around him but not stopped. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest kicking their mounts into motion, heading down toward the camp itself, but then he shoved the Alvritshai lord from his mind and focused on reaching the Tamaea.
The Drifter loomed large to the east, a coruscating array of light, mostly white but with iridescent shadings, its arms reaching out like antennae, tasting the air on all sides. The scent of the Well, of new earth and pine and dry leaves, crashed into him, so strong he felt his body shuddering in reaction, the craving for the Well almost overwhelming. He shoved that craving aside and forced himself not to look at the black mark on his arm, the black mark that had expanded each time he’d been within reach of the Well’s power and now throbbed with pain.
He slowed as he reached the outskirts of the camp, slid among the tents, around the Alvritshai who were now scattering as Lord Khalaek’s Phalanx warned them of the Drifter. Some of them had already seen it and were fleeing into the grass, their faces etched with terror. Colin didn’t stop, slipping through their mad rush caught in slow motion, brushing by their outstretched arms and bodies, keeping the white and red banners of the Tamaell’s tents in sight. He passed Khalaek, the lord caught in mid-shout, his face contorted and ugly with panic. Two of his Phalanx in black and gold were shoving people toward the edge of camp; one woman overbalanced, crashing into the folds of the tent behind her. The scene was eerie with no sound to accompany it, but he didn’t pause, didn’t stop to help.
There wasn’t time. The taste of the Drifter had grown stronger.
He burst through a section of tents and found the White Phalanx guards of the Tamaell standing alert and on edge. But they hadn’t seen the Drifter yet, were reacting to the chaos created by Khalaek and his own Phalanx, hands on their swords. Colin moved past them, searched through the Tamaell’s tents until he saw the Tamaea’s to one side, more guards stationed in front of it. He squeezed through the half-open tent flap, praying to Diermani and Aielan that the Tamaea would be there, but he was drawn up short by the closed tent flaps on the inner rooms.
Spitting a curse, he let the world return to normal.
Sound crashed into the silence: screams, bellowing horns, the harsh rasp of the canvas tent thrashing in an unnatural wind. Colin sucked in a sharp breath—the wind must be coming from the Drifter—then filtered the raucous noise out and focused in on the sounds from inside the tent as he shoved the nearest flap aside. The room inside was empty, so he dodged down to the next, pushing it aside with his staff.
And then he heard someone snap in a troubled, impatient voice, “Oh, stop it, Faeren. If there’s something to worry about, the Phalanx will tell us!”
Colin let the flap fall and crossed the corridor to where the voices had come from, throwing the flap back more roughly than he’d intended. Inside, the Tamaea’s personal servant shrieked, drawing back at the sudden movement, her eyes wide with fright. The Tamaea turned, eyes narrowing. Her hand slid to something concealed in her sleeve.
In a cold voice, she said, “Who are you?” in Alvritshai. But then recognition flickered across her face. Tension in her shoulders— what Colin had at first taken to be regal composure—softened, although her hand did not move from its place inside her sleeve. “You’re the human Aeren brought with him.” Hope flared in her eyes, as Colin struggled to piece together the Alvritshai words. Eraeth had taught him much of the language, and he’d learned some during his time at the Well, but everyone still spoke too fast. “Has Aeren returned? Is Thaedoren here?”
Colin stepped into the room, spoke slowly in
broken Alvritshai. He could understand it much better than he could speak it. “No time. A Drifter—an occumaen—is coming. Leave now.”
The Tamaea shifted uncertainly. The tent shuddered again in the unnatural wind, and behind her, the servant sobbed slightly, looking upward.
“How did you get past the Phalanx?” the Tamaea asked suspiciously.
“No time!” Colin barked, and reached out to grab her arm, to physically force her to follow him.
With a flick of her hand, the Tamaea withdrew a knife from her sleeve, holding the blade before her.
Colin froze, hand half extended. The tent shuddered again, more violently. Outside, they could now hear screams and shouts beneath the wind, closer than before. He could feel the Drifter, a pressure against his skin, tingling in the hairs on the back of his neck.
Slowly, he drew back. His eyes were locked with the Tamaea’s, pleading with her. He nearly growled in frustration, but he forced himself to remain calm. He gave up on Alvritshai and used Andovan instead. “Aeren sent me. To get you out of the Drifter’s path. Come outside and you’ll see.”
Then he turned and slipped through the opening, moving down the short corridor toward the tent’s entrance. He waited a moment there, watching for the Tamaea, for the servant, Faeren.
What seemed an eternity later, Faeren slid out into the corridor, stilled as she caught sight of him, then murmured something to the Tamaea inside. As Faeren held the flap open, the Tamaea stepped into the corridor, straightening slowly.
Colin could barely contain himself. The pressure of the Drifter now felt like a heavy blanket, smothering him from all sides, settling in his gut. The fine hairs on his arms stirred, prickling as they stood upright.
Before any of them could move, one of the Phalanx guardsmen burst through the main entrance with a desperate, “Tamaea! Tamaea, we have to leave here now!”
He pulled up short as he saw the Tamaea and Faeren in the corridor, saw the knife in the Tamaea’s hand.
And then he sensed Colin.
His cattan flashed from its sheath, the blade out and passing through the space where Colin had stood an instant before in less than a heartbeat. But Colin had already shifted, slowed time enough to see the swing of the blade, the bead of sweat that flicked from the Alvritshai guardsman’s nose as he turned, the shift in expression on the guard’s face—from panic to a grim, deadly determination.
When he let time return, he stood halfway between the guard and the Tamaea.
Faeren gasped. The guard recovered quickly, turning to where Colin now stood with a cold intensity . . . and a much more guarded and wary stance.
“Grae!” the Tamaea snapped over the increasing roar of the wind. “Leave him. He came to warn me of the occumaen. He’s part of Lord Aeren’s party.”
Grae didn’t relax, the look in his eyes easy enough to read. He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t want to defy her either. Colin held his gaze, ready to shift again if necessary—
But then the Tamaea intervened, stepping between them. Colin noticed her knife had vanished back into her sleeve as she passed. Grae was forced to lower his blade. He took his eyes off of Colin reluctantly to face her.
“Faeren, come,” the Tamaea said, stooping to brush her way out of the tent. As she did so, a gust of frigid air shook the tent, threatening to rip the stakes from the ground. Colin saw the Tamaea’s dress and hair whipped to the side as she raised one hand to protect her face and glanced upward.
And then her eyes widened, and she swore, although Colin couldn’t hear the words. They were lost to the wind.
Faeren slid past Grae and Colin and joined the Tamaea. Grae glared at Colin, turning his back only as he ducked outside. Colin followed.
The wind stole Colin’s breath away, slamming into him with a violence and force he’d never felt before. Men and women were screaming and running on all sides, dodging debris in the air as tents shivered and shuddered. Before he could turn, one of those nearest collapsed with a sudden whoomph, stakes and ropes flailing, chunks of dirt thrown into the air and whipped away. The tough canvas snapped and cracked, a few stakes still holding it in place, and then those gave and it tore free of the earth, carried up and away. Horses reared, men desperately tr ying to control them, a few riderless mounts tearing through the encampment as they fled.
Colin turned into the wind, dust and grit stinging his skin, his eyes tearing up . . . and felt his heart shudder in his chest.
The Drifted was almost upon them. He could see the setting sun through its eye, and that eye stretched up and up, higher than most of the trees on the plains. It stretched to the left and right even more, larger than the Well.
It would swallow them all.
He turned toward the Tamaea, toward Faeren and Grae and the rest of the Phalanx who’d been waiting outside for the Tamaea to join them, and bellowed at the top of his voice in Alvritshai, “RUN!”
His roar broke the Tamaea’s paralysis. Without waiting for her Phalanx, without waiting for Faeren or Grae, she spun and headed away from the Drifter, angling toward its nearest edge, her dress thrashing in the winds, slowing her down.
They ran, the pressure of the Drifter threatening to crush Colin to the ground, the scent of the forest, of loam and leaves, choking him. The taste of the Well filled his mouth, his body clenched with longing. He fled without looking back, could feel the Drifter rushing forward, the howl of the winds increasing even more, the earth seeming to tremble beneath his feet. Splinters of wood and stalks of dried grass sliced across his exposed skin, and small pebbles pelted him. A tent torn free from the ground caught one of the guards ahead and he fell, thrashing as it bore him to the ground, but none of the Phalanx stopped. None even slowed. Terror clutched at Colin’s heart, pulsed in his blood, the same terror he saw on all their faces, even the Tamaea’s. The facade of her rank had been completely stripped away, leaving nothing behind but raw panic and unadulterated fear.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the edge of the Drifter sweeping across the tents and grass beside them, sucking them into the eye, into its heart, and he felt a single moment of clarity through the pounding of his heart.
“We aren’t going to make it,” he whispered.
There, in the infinite space between one heartbeat and the next, without any conscious thought, his hand snapped out and caught the Tamaea’s arm—
And he shifted and pushed.
He cried out as something inside threatened to tear apart, something vital, wrenched in two different directions at once. His body tried to slow, but the Tamaea’s body held him back, like a weight, anchoring him to the real world, to real time. He’d never tried to draw anything along with him larger than a flower, a lock of hair, or his staff, never anything as large as another person. He dragged the Tamaea toward him, shoved against the pull of time harder, tried to envelope her with the throbbing pulse of the Well he could feel inside himself, which was echoed in the Drifter itself, and felt the world twisting around him, pulling taut, the muscles of his body screaming at the resistance.
Then, with a wrench, time gave, the wind halted, and the Tamaea lurched into his body. He wrapped the arm carrying his staff around her, drew her in tight, heard her scream in panicked terror as she fell, her other arm thrashing. She clawed him across the face, her fingernails sinking in deep, and then they were rolling on the ground, Colin gasping, but holding onto the Tamaea with a death grip, knowing that if he let her go, she’d be lost, caught back up in the tide of time, and the Drifter would have her.
They rolled to a stop, the Tamaea still struggling, tangled up in her dress, in the staff, until Colin cried out, “Stop!”
She halted immediately, trembling in his embrace, and with an effort that Colin felt shudder through her body, she stilled.
“What’s happened?” she heaved, her breath coming in ragged hitches. “What have you done?”
She tried to pull away from him, a new horror crossing her face, directed at him.
�
�Don’t,” he barked, and he heard the weakness in his voice. He could feel himself trembling as well, shudders running through his body. In a halting voice, in Alvritshai, he said, “Don’t let go . . . or you’ll end up . . . back there.” He swallowed, the tremors in his arms increasing. His grip on time slid slightly, not enough for the Tamaea to notice, but enough to make him gasp.
He wouldn’t be able to hold them here long. Not both of them.
“We have . . . to move,” he managed, stirring.
“You’re shuddering,” the Tamaea said. Now that he’d told her not to let go, she seemed determined not to move at all. “Are you hurt?”
“No. But we have . . . to move . . . Must move.” He glanced significantly at the Drifter.
The Tamaea looked in its direction, and he felt her stiffen. It hovered over the tents, the chaos caught and held, debris in the air, Faeren, Grae, and the Phalanx suspended in midcharge, their terror clear. The iridescent arms of the Drifter, invisible except for here, swept back and forth greedily, as if tasting everything before it gathered it into its eye. One of those arms flickered past overhead, and the Tamaea flinched.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, but her voice was layered with dread.
Colin pushed her away slightly. “We have to move.”
She responded to the urgency in his voice, wincing as she shifted away, his grip on her arm so tight her skin had turned white with the pressure. He tried to relax it, but he was afraid to let her go.
They climbed to their feet, Colin stumbling, his legs giving way beneath him, using the staff for support. The Tamaea caught him, held him upright. “What’s wrong?”
“My legs,” Colin gasped. “Weak. Holding you here is—”
He cried out as he stumbled again, and the Tamaea shrugged his arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight.
“Then let’s move,” she said, and she began half-dragging, halfpulling him forward. She’d regained some of her composure and drew the mantle of the Tamaea around her like a shield.
Well of Sorrows Page 49