Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “No,” he finally said, then sighed. “No, leave them. They’ve left the Provinces, as they said they would.”

  A small part of his mind began to wonder. Could Lord Aeren’s offer of potential peace be sincere?

  Tanner’s brow creased in annoyance, and he shoved the nagging thought aside.

  “What should we do then?”

  Tanner dragged his eyes away from the receding figures of the Alvritshai and the lone human in their midst—nothing more than dark shapes on the gold of the grass now—and faced his captain, pulling his mount around in the process. The horse snorted and shook its head, stamping the ground between the trees once, as if impatient to get moving. Tanner suddenly felt the same impatience itching between his shoulders.

  “We head back to Corsair to report to the King. We have more important issues to deal with than the Alvritshai.”

  “Like what?” his captain asked, casting a heated glance in the direction of the Alvritshai party. For the first time, Tanner noted the gray streaks in the captain’s hair, registered the man’s age. He’d likely been at the Escarpment. A young man then, perhaps barely fifteen. He might have experienced the Alvritshai betrayal firsthand, might have lost friends to the battle fought afterward, as they tried to retreat.

  “Like the Andovans,” Tanner said sharply, his tone catching the man’s attention. “They’re a more imminent threat than the Alvritshai at the moment.”

  And with that, he shoved the Alvritshai from his mind and kicked his horse toward Corsair, his thoughts turning west, toward the Andovans and the protection of the coast.

  14

  “DRIFTER!” COLIN CALLED SHARPLY.

  Eraeth, standing about twenty paces distant, spun, his sword half drawn before he realized that Colin pointed toward one of the strange rippling distortions. Colin had seen one a few days out onto the plains after leaving the Well to return to Portstown. But that had been distant and looked no larger than a man; it had been far enough away that he could shrug it off as heat haze, although he was certain it wasn’t.

  This one was much closer and much larger—big enough to swallow the entire group of Alvritshai with Colin, even with them scattered apart as they were during the rest period.

  Eraeth snorted in derision and slipped his sword back into place with a snick. But Colin noticed he didn’t relax.

  Neither did any of the other Alvritshai who’d looked up. They all tracked the distortion’s slow, steady progress as it slid by. The grass beneath the translucent ripples bent downward beneath it, pressed flat at the drifter’s base. Waves spread outward from it, as if it were a stone thrown into water.

  When it became apparent that it wouldn’t drift close enough to them to be a concern, Eraeth turned back to his horse, lifting up one of the animal’s hooves to check for damage. He slipped a small tool, like a miniature pick, from a pouch and began cleaning.

  Colin shifted closer, his own horse still drinking heavily from the stream that bubbled up from the earth near the base of a small hillock. Sources of water were scarce on the plains, since most of it was hidden underground, so when they found a stream aboveground, they always stopped to refill their waterskins. The Alvritshai seemed to know where the streams were located and had hidden caches of food stored at various places on the plains—mostly dried, smoked gaezel, spiced, like what Aeren had offered his father and the rest of the greeting party when they’d first met on the plains. Once, they’d even halted in the middle of a flat and dug down into the earth until water gurgled to the surface and formed a small pool. Eating was formal, almost ritualistic, even here on the plains, as it had been during their meeting over sixty years before. Nearly everything the Alvritshai did was ritualistic, stiff and formal, and yet Colin found himself settling into the rhythms as the days passed.

  “What is it?” Colin asked.

  Eraeth looked up with a glare. He’d been much more scathing and vicious since they entered the plains; Colin suspected that it was because Aeren refused to tell the Protector where they were going and why, although neither Aeren nor Eraeth had confirmed this. Aeren had barely spoken to either of them, keeping to himself during the breaks, withdrawn and distant, his mood bleak and troubled. The same mood had infected the rest of the Alvritshai, Eraeth in particular.

  “What is what?” Eraeth snarled.

  “That,” Colin said, exasperated. “The Drifter. What is it? Where does it come from? What does it do?”

  Eraeth rolled his eyes, finished cleaning out the collected dirt and grass from his horse’s hoof, then released the horse, murmuring something in the animal’s ear before patting it on the flank. Its ear pricked back, and it snuffled softly before reaching for the grass.

  “We call it an occumaen, a ‘breath of heaven.’ They appear on the plains, travel a ways, and then they vanish. And they are extremely dangerous.”

  Colin thought about the horses being spooked in the wagon train, before the disastrous attempt to climb the Bluff. “But where do they come from?”

  Eraeth’s face twisted into an irritated grimace, ready to shove Colin’s question to one side as unimportant, when someone else spoke.

  “The Scripts claim that the occumaen come from Aielan, that they are here to seek out those she wishes to speak to and take them to her. Many people have vanished in the presence of one of the occumaen. There are legends that entire armies have been lost to them.”

  Both Colin and Eraeth turned toward Aeren. The Alvritshai lord’s face was still fixed, mouth drawn downward, but it was the first time in the past week that he’d interjected anything into a conversation. Eraeth straightened, a look of hope flashing through his eyes.

  “If that’s the case, why don’t the Alvritshai rush toward them? Why do you keep back? You obviously worship Aielan, and her . . . Light.”

  Aeren smiled slightly. “Would you rush to meet this Diermani you pray to?”

  Colin frowned, thought about the day of the wagon attack, of the Shadows touching him, of the cold death they’d offered. He’d had a chance to seek out Diermani then, but when the Faelehgre offered him an alternative, he’d taken it. Even though he hadn’t fully understood the consequences of his choice. “No,” he said softly. “No, I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”

  Aeren nodded, his ironic smile softening. “Faith is a strange thing. We worship Aeilan, we pray to her Light, hope that in the end we shall find it . . . but until that end is inevitable, we shun it. At all costs. And yet without faith. . . .” He didn’t finish, turning to face Eraeth. “We must all have faith. In Aielan, in Diermani—” a quick flick of his glance and a respectful bow of his head toward Colin, “—in ourselves, and, most important, in each other. It is all that we have, in the end.”

  Eraeth stiffened, as if Aeren had offered up a formal reprimand. Then, he bowed his head.

  Aeren moved off. When he was far enough away, Eraeth said in a low voice, “He was once an acolyte in the Order, training to be a follower of Aielan. It was a common calling for second sons of the Houses, and it suited him. He had risen fairly high within the acolytes’ ranks and in the esteem of Lotaern, the Order’s leader, before the death of his father forced him to return to his House.” Eraeth turned toward Colin, a strange mixture of pain, regret, and hostility in his eyes, as if somehow the death of Aeren’s father were Colin’s fault.

  And at that moment, Colin’s stomach seized, the heat flaring up his side and into his chest, the pain piercing into his abdomen. He gasped, clutched at his gut, tried to remain standing, but the strength drained out of his legs. He fell, writhing on the grass as the heat expanded until it felt as if it were consuming him from the inside out. Hissing between clenched teeth, he rolled to the side and pressed his face into the earth, breathed in the scent of grain overlaid with the hideously enticing scent of leaves and snow. The sharp tincture of blood flooded the back of his throat, and with a nearly soundless cry he began scrabbling for his satchel. The pain was too
great, the heat eating him up inside. He needed the vial, needed the Lifeblood to soothe it. His fingers found the ties, jerked them open as his arm spasmed, and then he rooted through the contents blindly, still curled over the pain in his stomach. Vaguely he heard shouts, but then his hand closed over the cloth containing the vial.

  He snatched his hand free of the satchel, let the bag fall, and pulled the vial out of its protective cloth. His entire body trembled now, although the heat had begun to receed. He held the vial up to the sunlight, could practically taste the clear liquid inside already, reached to open it—

  And a hand—a pale-skinned, Alvritshai hand—latched onto his arm and held it. He cried out, his voice cracking with frustrated anger, and glared up at Eraeth, who’d crouched down next to him in the grass.

  “Let go.” The words came out in a growl, between clenched teeth.

  “What is it?” Eraeth asked, his voice hard.

  Colin tried to break Eraeth’s hold, but the Alvritshai was stronger than he looked. He shot a glance toward the nearest of the Phalanx as they gathered around, at Aeren, who stood a few paces back, his brow creased in confusion, but none of them moved forward to help him. So he turned his attention back to Eraeth. “It will help with the seizure. It will stop the pain.”

  Confusion flickered across Eraeth’s face, and his grip on Colin’s arm eased.

  But then Aeren spoke. He’d moved forward so that he stood behind Eraeth. “Is it from the sarenavriell? Is it from the Well?”

  Colin didn’t have to answer. Aeren nodded and frowned, a look of pity crossing his face.

  He turned to Eraeth. “Let him have it. He is shaeveran. He knows the consequences of using it.”

  Colin shuddered at the weight in Aeren’s words as Eraeth released him. He snatched the vial close to his chest, his body still shaking. Eraeth stared down at him a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stood and turned away.

  “Wait,” Colin said. He tasted the blood in the back of his throat, swallowed it.

  Eraeth paused but didn’t turn. Everyone else hesitated, even Aeren, the lord looking back.

  Colin thought about Osserin’s last words as he left the forest. You’ll return.

  This was why. He’d taken the Lifeblood with him. He’d felt it every step of the way across the plains, tasted it in the back of his throat after every seizure, yearned for it. Its presence exacerbated the withdrawal symptoms, might even have made them worse. He needed to get rid of it, but he couldn’t. The thought of pouring it out on the ground made his bones ache. And he wasn’t certain he wouldn’t need it eventually. If the Well had claimed him completely, he’d need the Lifeblood to survive. But he needed distance from it. It was too tempting.

  “Take it,” he said, the words rough, barely more than a whisper. He held the vial out toward Eraeth, and when the Protector turned but didn’t move, he thrust it toward him and growled, “Take it! Before I change my mind!”

  No one moved. Eraeth’s brow furrowed. “Why me?”

  “Because you hate me,” Colin spat. “Because you won’t give it back to me if I ask, no matter how much pain I’m in.”

  Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment he stepped forward and took the vial, staring at it a moment before tucking it into a fold in his shirt near his belt. He looked directly into Colin’s eyes and said, “You are a strange man.”

  Before anyone else could speak, one of the Alvritshai guardsmen on watch gave a piercing whistle and cry. He shouted something in Alvritshai, pointing toward the southeast with the tip of his bow.

  Eraeth tensed, hand falling to his sword, but Aeren merely sighed.

  At Eraeth’s questioning glance—not as harsh as those he’d given his lord the past week—Aeren said, “It’s the dwarren we’ve come here to meet.”

  “You should have warned me of whom we were to meet,” Eraeth said tightly in Alvritshai. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword as the dwarren appeared on the flat of the plains below. Dust rose, thrown up by the dwarren’s gaezels, and Eraeth felt sweat break out between his shoulder blades, his lips pressed together. “There are more dwarren than there are of us,” he hissed, his voice low so that the other Alvritshai couldn’t hear. He scanned the hillock where they’d halted and noted how vulnerable it was, and then his eyes flashed over the rest of the Phalanx. Messages were passed in silent hand signals, the others spreading out, clasps on blades loosened. Bows were strung by the few that carried them, but no arrows were drawn. Yet.

  Satisfied with the Alvritshai, he caught the look on Colin’s face—a cold and pure hatred, the anger tightening the human’s skin near the eyes. It made the human look . . . hard and unforgiving. He’d recovered enough from the seizure to join them, his staff angled forward and to one side, feet slightly apart, balanced and ready.

  The change startled Eraeth, enough that he took a moment to reevaluate the man Aeren had insisted on bringing along. He’d thought the human was soft and worthless, as well as cursed, but the way he held the staff indicated he knew how to use it. He’d brought down the two assassins in Portstown but had collapsed immediately afterward, so Eraeth had assumed he was weak. Colin’s reliance on the vial of water from the sarenavriell supported that . . . except that he’d given the vial up, had handed it to Eraeth, not Aeren. And Colin’s presence at the meeting with King Stephan had only antagonized the King. Not that it mattered. The King of the Provinces would never agree to a peace with the Alvritshai, not after the betrayal at the Escarpment and the death of his father.

  Eraeth felt a surge of anger and a pang of regret. The Lords of the Evant who had participated in the betrayal that day had deceived more than the humans. They’d defied the will of the Tamaell and the other lords. They’d betrayed the Alvritshai people as a whole.

  Yet Tamaell Fedorem had done nothing to punish those Lords. Nothing.

  The thought left a bitter taste in Eraeth’s mouth and led to other thoughts that he knew he could not voice, not even to Aeren, even when he could see the same thoughts in Aeren’s eyes. Such as whether or not Fedorem had known of the lords’ intentions before they’d reached the Escarpment. And if he had known, why he’d done nothing to stop them.

  The obvious answer—that Fedorem had planned the betrayal all along—nauseated Eraeth with shame.

  The dwarren drums rumbled across the distance, and Eraeth tore his gaze away from Colin to see the large contingent of dwarren and gaezels pulling to a halt over a hundred paces distant. The dwarren in the lead glared at them from his position, then motioned to the others beside him, not taking his eyes off Aeren. The rest of the dwarren scattered, a group of warriors spreading out in a thin line. Eraeth watched as scouts slipped from their mounts and took off at a run, vanishing in the grasses in the space of a breath. Another group behind began unloading bundles and packs from an array of baggage animals. Sheets of blue-green cloth were unfolded, and poles were erected, the wood looking freshly cut. There must be a copse or thicket nearby, probably in another area where the water breached the surface. The dwarren knew the plains better than the Alvritshai.

  A moment later, Aeren released a pent up breath in a slow, careful sigh. “Look,” he said, nodding toward where the poles had been positioned. The unfurled sheets of cloth were being wound around them in an intricate pattern, numerous lengths folded and woven in and out as the dwarren walked back and forth around the central poles, almost like a dance. “It’s to be a formal meeting. We’ll have to give them time to set up the tent and arrange the interior. Once they’re satisfied, they’ll come to us.”

  “How many of the Alvritshai will they allow inside the tent?”

  Aeren turned to consider the size of the tent. “Four, no more.”

  “I assume you’ll insist that the human join us.” Eraeth tried to keep the derision out of his voice, knew he hadn’t succeeded.

  Aeren smiled. “No. Colin will remain in the camp. I’ll want you there, of course, and two others. Dharel, perhaps. And Auvant. They can b
ring the cattan blades, but no other weapons. And they are not to draw except on my order.”

  Eraeth stiffened at his lord’s tone, but nodded.

  Aeren must have seen the disagreement in Eraeth’s face. He turned his full attention on him. “After what happened in Corsair, I want nothing to interfere with the possibility of an agreement with the dwarren here. Nothing.”

  Eraeth heard the same intensity in Aeren’s voice as in the audience chamber in Corsair, the same driving force. His lord’s voice throbbed with it.

  “Very well,” he said, nodding again, without the stiffness of disapproval, without even a trace of it in his voice.

  Aeren relaxed imperceptibly, his attention returning to the industrious dwarren. They were tying off the last lengths of the tent, the edges trailing outward from the central spire. After a moment, Eraeth realized it was set up like a reverse whirlpool, the center of the tent the vortex. And like a whirlpool, he felt a sense of power surrounding it, a density of motion, of force.

  “Have the others set up a more permanent camp here, near the stream,” Aeren continued. “And set sentries to keep watch.”

  “And then what?”

  Aeren turned toward him. “And then we wait.”

  The dwarren came for them at dusk, the bright orange of the clouds fading when the sentries called out in harsh warning. The rest of the Phalanx came instantly alert, after the tension of the dwarren arrival had eased through hours of boredom. They’d caught glimpses of the dwarren scouts at a distance, but other than that there had been no movement or activity.