Lotaern and the Order of the Flames’ flaming swords and the churning earth might have worked if the Legion hadn’t had fresh reinforcements waiting.
Now, the Alvritshai lines had shattered completely, pockets of Alvritshai fighting desperately all across the field, all of them trying to retreat toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s center, his horns blaring the retreat, issuing no other orders except to fall back, the direction of the retreat changing every moment as Thaedoren withdrew as well. They’d already been driven beyond where the acolytes had called forth Aielan’s Light from the earth. They were approaching the ridge overlooking the flat, beyond which stood the Alvritshai camp.
And the Legion would not stop. Aeren could feel it. With a sinking sensation, Aeren realized that the Alvritshai could not win, that they might not even survive the battle, as the dwarren Riders had not survived thirty years before.
And then shouts rang out, spreading through the mass of Legion before him. He couldn’t see past the crush of men, but he felt the pressure pushing the Alvritshai back decrease, the faces of the men before him turning to look back, exclaiming in anger, in disbelief. Those at the front didn’t stop fighting until they realized that those behind were retreating, backing off step by careful step.
When the men Aeren grappled with finally withdrew, Aeren gasped and sagged, one hand going to his side, coming away black with blood. His own blood. He hadn’t even felt the cut, hadn’t seen the blade that had scored there, opening the flesh beneath the edge of his armor. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but he placed his hand over it and pressed, trying to halt the blood flow. His armor weighed down on him, his cattan heavy, but he remained upright as Eraeth staggered to his side, his own face covered in blood from a wound to his head.
To either side, the Legion were retreating, leaving the decimated Alvritshai behind. Aeren picked out Thaedoren and closed his eyes in relief, began counting up the rest of the Lords of the Evant. He saw Peloroun and Jydell, Waerren and Vaersoom, Waerren’s forces cut down to fewer than fifty men. None of Lord Barak’s House remained, and he didn’t see Barak either. Altogether, he estimated there were fewer than fifteen hundred Alvritshai remaining on the field.
Over four thousand had arrived at the flat.
The loss of life sickened him. It would take decades for the Alvritshai to recoup such death.
If they recouped at all.
“What . . .” Aeren heaved; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, “. . . happened?”
“Look,” Eraeth said, and pointed.
Turning, Aeren saw where the main bulk of the Legion’s forces had regrouped. He saw the flags of the King, but not the King himself, saw those flags break away and head toward two figures walking toward them, a small group of Legion slightly behind.
Aeren frowned. “That’s Colin.”
“With the King.”
They shared a look. Then: “I thought Colin was with Moiran in the Tamaell’s tents.”
Eraeth’s frown deepened. He nearly growled. “He was.”
On the flat, the King and Colin merged with the approaching contingent of banners and horsemen. After a pause, the King led the group back to the main army as ragged cheers broke out.
“Gather the House,” Aeren said. “Regroup with Thaedoren.”
“What’s going on?” Eraeth asked.
Aeren shook his head. “I don’t know.”
As Eraeth gathered what was left of House Rhyssal’s Phalanx, Aeren moved toward Thaedoren’s pennants, wincing as pain flared in his side. Halfway there his House arrived, Eraeth leading all two hundred of them, a horse in tow. With help, Aeren made it into the saddle, someone cinching a makeshift bandage around his waist. His Phalanx behind him, he rode through the White Phalanx’s ranks to Thaedoren.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Thaedoren shot him a look, nodded in acknowledgment then turned his attention back to the Legion. “The Legion has withdrawn. It appears to be on the order of King Stephan.”
“How did the King get to the far side of the battle?” Lord Jydell asked as he trotted toward them.
Thaedoren frowned. “I . . . don’t know.”
“He had Colin with him,” Aeren said abruptly, as he suddenly understood.
The Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
They waited, the surviving lords joining them, each asking the same questions, no one coming up with any answers.
Then flags were waved at the edge of the Legion’s forces, asking for a parley.
Thaedoren straightened in his saddle, brow furrowed. “He’ll want our surrender,” Peloroun said tightly.
Thaedoren glanced toward him, let his gaze wander over all the lords present. “Aeren and Jydell, you’re with me.”
Aeren caught Eraeth’s gaze, and his Protector fell in beside him as they moved out onto the flat, stepping over bodies. Jydell had brought his own Protector, and two of the White Phalanx accompanied Thaedoren. Across the field, King Stephan, Tanner Dain, and Colin matched their progress, the King surrounded by two Governors and a contingent of seven Legionnaires.
They met halfway between the two armies, each group halting when they were ten paces apart. The Governors, Tanner, and the Legionnaires glared at the Alvritshai, on edge, their hands close to their swords. Stephan regarded them with a cold eye, frowning, as if he didn’t know what to think of the Alvritshai lords, of Thaedoren. Colin appeared pale, unfocused. His face was pallid, his eyes bleary, and the bandage over his chest was black with blood, the Alvritshai shirt he wore matted to it.
The Tamaell Presumptive nudged his horse forward a step. “What is it you wished to say?”
Stephan stiffened, lifted his chin. “The fighting needs to end.” Thaedoren nodded, face neutral. “You wish us to surrender.” Stephan shook his head. “No. I want a truce. Between us. With the dwarren. A truce among all of us.”
His Governors and a few of the Legion instantly protested, their voices loud, hands gesturing, until one voice broke through the others.
“You can’t be serious!” the Governor exclaimed. “We have them on their knees. We can crush their resistance here, now! We can crush them—”
“No!” Stephan barked, cutting the Governor off with a look. The Governor’s anger narrowed as he drew himself up in his saddle. “At least require their surrender. Take hostages to ensure their behavior.”
Stephan considered for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. They didn’t come here to fight this battle. We did. That’s the only reason we’ve managed to subdue them.”
Tanner Dain sidled closer and said in a low voice that could nevertheless be heard by everyone, “Remember what happened here thirty years ago. Remember your father. These pale-skinned bastards don’t deserve any mercy.”
Stephan shifted and glanced at Colin, who was looking even worse now. “But I do remember, Tanner. Better than you might imagine. And yes, some of them deserve no mercy—” his voice hardened. “—and they will get none. But not all of them.”
Tanner clenched his jaw. “Then you believe their lies?”
“I didn’t,” Stephan said, an edge of warning creeping into his tone, “but I do now.”
Tanner’s gaze shot toward Colin in suspicion, but he listened to the unspoken warning and said nothing.
As soon as his commander backed off and the grumbling of the Governors had subsided, he turned back to Thaedoren. “There are conditions.”
Cautious, Thaedoren asked, “What conditions?”
“Lord Aeren, when he came to see me in Corsair to suggest an accord, claimed that not all the Lords of the Evant were involved in my father’s murder. I didn’t believe it then because of everything I’d been told since the battle, everything that I’d come to see as true. But I’ve been shown the truth, and I realize that he was correct. Only three lords were involved. One of them was killed almost immediately. And one did not actually raise a weapon against my father that day, he simply pulled the Tamaell—your father—to
safety.” Stephan’s eyes darkened, his voice deepened. “But the other, this Lord Khalaek . . . I want him.”
Thaedoren’s shoulders squared. “He has already been sequestered for murdering the Tamaell—”
“If you want this treaty—if you want this peace—then you will give him to me.”
It was said softly, between clenched teeth, but the anger, the rage, came through clearly.
Aeren adjusted his position in the saddle, but didn’t dare look at the Tamaell Presumptive. There were too many emotions involved, too many political implications regarding Khalaek and the Evant, Thaedoren and Stephan, the Alvritshai and the Provinces.
“Very well,” Thaedoren said. “But Lord Khalaek must face the Evant first.”
Stephan shrugged. “As long as I get him alive.”
Thaedoren nodded. “I’ll make certain of that. What are your other conditions?”
“That the dwarren be included in the treaty, that Lord Aeren be there for the talks, that we meet on this field, in the open, just you, me, the Cochen, and one adviser each, along with him.” He motioned toward Colin, who didn’t react. The human’s head had dropped, hair falling over his face so that Aeren could no longer see his eyes.
Aeren shifted forward. “Speaking of Colin,” he began, but paused when both Thaedoren and Stephan turned their gazes on him. Both had frowned at the interruption, but they were too focused on each other, on the discussion. Neither had even looked at Colin. “Speaking of Colin,” he began again, “I’d ask that you allow my Protector to take him to our healers. He’s obviously wounded.”
Their attention shifted toward Colin sharply, even as he began to list in his saddle. Stephan swore and caught him before he could fall, holding him upright. “Of course,” he said. “Take him.”
Eraeth moved forward immediately, bringing his mount alongside Colin’s. With Stephan’s help, Eraeth pulled Colin’s body into the saddle in front of him and headed back toward the Alvritshai camp.
Stephan watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thaedoren. “We can discuss everything else once we’ve had a chance to recover. Tend to your wounded. I’ll send an emissary to the dwarren and arrange matters with them, as well as discuss them with my Governors.”
“As will I with the Evant.”
“Very well.”
The two leaders nodded at each other, then turned and headed back to their own armies.
“That was . . . unexpected,” Lord Jydell muttered.
“Yes,” Thaedoren said tightly, “but welcome. Assemble the Evant, and order everyone else to begin searching for the wounded on the field. And collecting the dead.”
“And what will the Evant be discussing?”
Thaedoren’s face tightened with anger. “Lord Khalaek.”
When Colin woke the first time, he never opened his eyes.
He could sense someone leaning over him. And then, as if through a dense fog, he heard someone say, “Will he survive?”
He recognized Stephan’s voice, could feel the King withdraw slightly.
“He should never have survived the knife to his chest,” Aeren answered. “I don’t understand how he had enough strength to take you to the battle thirty years ago. But yes, we think he will survive.”
A long silence. “Who is he?”
Someone snorted, and Colin smiled. Eraeth. He could imagine Aeren’s glare.
“He came from Portstown.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That’s all I can say,” Aeren answered. “Other than to say that he is Rhyssal-aein, a friend.”
“He’s more,” Eraeth said gruffly. “More than Rhyssal-aein. He is a member of the House. He is Colin Harten, Colin Shaeveran. He is touched by Aielan and touched by shadow.”
A significant pause, and then Aeren said, “Indeed.”
Colin heard movement, people shifting. Stephan sighed. “I suppose we should start the talks without him then. I’d hoped he would have recovered by now.”
“The wound was deep,” Aeren answered carefully. “Deeper than perhaps we know.”
“Then let him rest,” Stephan said, his voice already retreating. Colin listened as Aeren and Eraeth followed. “We’ll begin at midday, on the field. Is everything prepared?”
“I believe so . . .”
And then the voices faded, and Colin faded with them.
When he woke the second time, he opened his eyes to find Moiran and Aeren talking quietly on one side. He listened to the soft murmur of their words, not trying to understand, simply staring up at the undulating canvas of the tent above. The room was lit with a soft lamp, shadows flickering on the walls.
He stirred, his stomach growling, and the conversation halted. Moiran appeared first, frowning down at him, Aeren a moment later, both concerned.
“How do you feel?” Moiran asked. It took a moment for Colin to piece together the Alvritshai.
“Hungry,” Colin rasped, his voice sticking in his throat. He coughed, winced at the pain. He dug his chin into his chest, trying to see the bandage that bound him. He picked at it, Moiran gently slapping his hand away.
“Leave it,” she said, then glanced toward Aeren. “Watch him while I go find something for him to eat.”
As soon as Moiran left, Colin asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“Ten days.”
Colin sighed, raised his left arm to scrub at his face, but paused.
The black mark, what had begun as only a freckle on the inside of his wrist, had now spread to his entire arm, the darkness swirling and eddying beneath his skin like a living tattoo.
He stared at it a long moment, the same dread that had seized him in the forest deep in his stomach . . . and then he let his arm drop.
“Is that the price you paid?” Aeren asked. “Is that what it cost to take Stephan back to the first battle to witness his father’s death?”
Colin couldn’t look at Aeren as he answered. “Yes.”
He expected Aeren to protest, to say the cost was too high, that they would have found another way.
Instead, the lord said, “Then the Evant and all of the Alvritshai thank you.”
Colin turned, met Aeren’s gaze directly, and in his eyes he saw what Aeren could not say, saw the gratitude that could not be expressed in words.
Shifting uncomfortably, he asked, “What happened?” then began struggling up into a seated position. Aeren frowned but helped him, propping pillows up behind him. His chest ached—his entire body ached—but not to the extent it had immediately after the fight in the tent with Walter.
“Stephan has asked for an accord, a treaty among all three races. We’ve been discussing the terms for the last eight days, after seeing to our wounded and burning the dead, including Tamaell Fedorem. Thaedoren has met with the dwarren shamans and chiefs and made a formal apology for desecrating the Land. He has pledged the Event and the Alvritshai to the preservation of the Land, as they requested, which is the main reason the dwarren are talking at all. I was there. It was . . . an interesting ceremony. And I believe Thaedoren actually intends to enforce the pledge.” He sat back, having gotten Colin settled. Stephan would have waited longer to start the talks—he wanted you to be there—but we convinced him that you needed time to recover.”
“Why would he want me there?”
“Perhaps because of what you did. But also, I think, because of what happened in the parley tent with Fedorem. He wanted you there in case the Wraith returned.” He held Colin’s gaze a long moment. “Could the Wraith return? Or is it dead?”
Colin thought about Walter, about the wound he’d inflicted, about the fact that Walter had drunk from the Well in the forest, and grimaced. “He’s not dead. He’s like me. He’ll heal.”
“And where is he now?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think he’d head back to the Well, back to the forest. The Faelehgre will know. I’ll find out from them as soon as I can. He was wounded as badly as I was.”
/> “Worse. Khalaek stabbed him as well in order to escape.” Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He hadn’t seen what transpired between the two. “What’s happened to Khalaek?”
Aeren looked away, troubled and angry. He stood, began pacing. “The Evant has declared him a traitor. If it had been anyone but a lord of the Evant, anyone but him, he would have been executed immediately. But he is a lord, and as one of the conditions of the treaty, Stephan has required that we hand him over to the Provinces for justice. So the Evant has decided to exile Khalaek from the Evant, from all of Alvritshai lands, forever. He’ll be banished after the treaty has been completed and then immediately given over to Stephan.”
“When will that happen?”
“Tomorrow . . . or perhaps the day after, depending on when the final minor details of the treaty are agreed upon.” Aeren stopped pacing and faced Colin. “Will you be well enough to attend?”
“Yes,” Colin said. “Whether Moiran agrees with me or not.” Aeren smiled, the expression vanishing the instant Moiran ducked beneath the tent flap with a tray of food held carefully before her.
As she rose from her stooped position, she froze and shot Aeren a glare. “You let him sit up?”
When Aeren said nothing, she sniffed and moved to Colin’s side. The smell of hot soup filled the tent as she settled down beside him and checked his bandage, and his stomach rumbled loudly. Satisfied he’d come to no harm, she spooned up some of the soup and brought it to his lips, murmuring, “I leave you alone for five minutes . . .”
Colin nearly moaned as the soup filled his mouth with flavor. Aeren grinned. “I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, moving toward the door flap.
“I’ll be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Moiran snapped.
Colin sent Aeren a wordless plea for help, but the lord ducked out of the tent with a low chuckle.
The next night, as the sun set, the Lords of the Evant gathered with their guardsmen and a few of their aides in the center of the flat. To the north, east, and south, sounds of celebration could be heard, muted by distance. The treaty had been agreed upon and signed. Official borders had been established and terms worked out regarding trade, politics, and aid. It was still tentative, still a little too new, no side quite trusting the others.
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