Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  “I am concerned,” Aeren said, “but not for the same reason. There may be others out there with this . . . ability. And if Colin can bypass our sentries, then so can they. Those are the men you should be worried about, not Colin.” He scanned the horizon, searching for the flicker of shadow Eraeth had mentioned. Because he’d noticed the shadow as well. Nothing tangible enough to track, to follow with the eye, but if Colin passed through his peripheral vision . . .

  “I’m more concerned that something has happened to him,” Aeren said. “Have you noticed he isn’t keeping as old of an appearance as when we first met him in Portstown?”

  Eraeth’s lips twitched into a sneer, then smoothed. “Should we wait for him?” he asked, completely formal now.

  Aeren suppressed a sigh. “No. We’ll move on to the outpost, and then directly to Caercaern. If Colin can slip by our sentries, he should have no problem with the outposts.”

  “We won’t be traveling to Rhyssal?”

  “There isn’t time if we’re to convince the Tamaell to meet with the dwarren.”

  “And have you figured out how you’re going to do that?”

  Aeren didn’t answer, catching Eraeth’s gaze instead. Lines of concern appeared at the edges of the Phalanx’s eyes, but he said nothing. “Let’s move,” Aeren said, stepping away from the plains into the edge of the heavier scrub to the north.

  They reached the outpost an hour later, Eraeth approaching the lone building nestled in the branches of the trees above to announce them, although Aeren knew that the Phalanx that manned the outpost had likely seen the party nearly fifteen minutes before as they climbed the lower hills and entered the verge of the higher forests. One of the Phalanx had removed the Rhyssal House banner and attached it to pole to declare themselves once they’d come within shouting distance of the outpost.

  When Eraeth turned to look back, Aeren moved forward, escorted by the rest of the Phalanx in his party. The caitan of the outpost who’d been speaking to Eraeth bowed formally at the waist as he approached. “Lord Aeren,” he said, rising slowly. He wore Ionaen House colors: Peloroun’s black and orange. “Aielan’s Light upon you.”

  “And you,” Aeren answered, then asked, “What news?”

  The caitan shrugged. “Nothing of note here beneath the Hauttaeren.”

  “And elsewhere?”

  “Nothing from the plains, but there has been activity on the coast.”

  “What kind of activity?”

  “Lord Barak returned with news of war between the Provinces and Andover. The Andovans have attacked numerous ports along the coast. The human Governors have been able to repel all such attacks so far, although there are rumors that the Andovans have yet to bring their main fleets across the Arduon.”

  “Have the attacks affected any of our own ports yet?”

  “The Andovans have yet to venture that far up the coast. They seem to be relegating their attacks to the areas south of Sedaeren and the Claw.”

  “It would be stupid to antagonize us by attacking Alvritshai ports,” Eraeth said.

  The caitan snorted. “When have the humans ever shown such intelligence?”

  Everyone in Aeren’s party stilled. Such prejudiced comments were not allowed in the Rhyssal House, by any of its members, including the Phalanx.

  But this was not his House lands, and these were not his Phalanx. Each lord kept their own army, trained it and supplied it using their own House resources, its members loyal to the House’s lord and the Tamaell.

  The silence held until the caitan shifted awkwardly, uncertain how he had offended Aeren. He fell back on protocol. “Will you be passing through to your own House lands?”

  Aeren shook his head and answered coldly. “No. I will be traveling to Caercaern on urgent business. I have my own Phalanx. There will be no need of an escort.” The caitan nodded, glancing over the group and frowning. There were fewer of the Phalanx in attendance than most of the other lords used in their own escorts. “Are any of the lords currently seeing the Tamaell?”

  “Lord Barak, Jydell, and Khalaek are in attendance.”

  More than Aeren expected. “Have word sent to the remaining lords that their presence is required in Caercaern. Immediately.”

  The caitan nodded, motioning to members of the Phalanx behind him.

  Then they left the outpost behind and entered Ionaen House lands.

  Aeren saw the flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye a moment before Colin appeared before him.

  Eraeth’s cattan snicked from its sheath, blade pointed at Colin’s chest, before Aeren had even had time to lean back.

  “Where have you been?” Eraeth demanded, his voice like stone. On all sides, the rest of the Phalanx rose from their positions around the way station beside the road where they’d stopped to rest the horses and eat their midmorning meal.

  Aeren glared at Eraeth in annoyance. “If he’d wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead,” he said calmly, in Alvritshai, “and there would have been nothing you could have done to stop him.”

  Eraeth grimaced, his blade lowering, even as he sent Colin—standing perfectly still—an angry look. “He would make a perfect assassin,” he growled, a certain amount of respect in his voice. The rest of the Phalanx went back to their tasks.

  Aeren nodded. “Thankfully, he is not.”

  Then he turned to Colin and said in Andovan, “I assume something has happened.”

  Relaxing slightly, Colin nodded. “Something has happened, although I don’t think it has anything to do with your plans.” He told them about the Well, the disappearance of the Wraiths, and the expansion of the sukrael’s range in Alvritshai lands. He shuddered as he spoke, and Aeren saw something dark and haunted flicker through Colin’s eyes, the same haunted look he’d seen on the ship when he’d woken from the seizure, the same desperation he’d noted at odd moments since. But that initial look had been worn, old in some way, as if it were a wound that he’d learned simply to accept. This wound was new and fresh, still bleeding. Aeren could see it in Colin’s hold on the staff, in the way he unconsciously massaged the wrist of his right hand.

  Colin swallowed as he finished and met Aeren’s gaze. “If the Well’s influence is spreading northward, then the Alvritshai will be the first affected by the presence of the sukrael.”

  “It will affect the dwarren as well.”

  “What are the Wraiths?” Eraeth demanded.

  Colin shrugged. “They were part of the forest when I arrived, there when I awoke. They must have been people who wandered into the Well’s influence.”

  “Or were driven there,” Eraeth said.

  Aeren nodded slowly. “If they were created to awaken the Wells, so that the sukrael would have a larger hunting ground, then in order to find the Wraiths, we need to find the Wells.” An unpleasant pit had opened in his stomach, and a dry, sour taste filled his mouth. He shifted his attention to Eraeth. “We’ll have to inform the Order.”

  Eraeth winced.

  “What’s the Order?” Colin asked.

  “The Order of Aielan,” Aeren answered. “Its acolytes are the keepers of the Scripts, the holders of the ancient texts and their knowledge. They interpret Aielan’s will, and they lead us all to Aielan’s Light. And most of their members have certain . . . talents.”

  “Like Diermani’s priests in the church.”

  Aeren smiled, the expression taut. “Yes and no. Like your priests, the acolytes have power. Nothing like what you have shown, but power nonetheless. But unlike your churches, the Order has direct political influence. In effect, they are a ninth House, except that they have no direct role to play in the Evant. But they can control it, if they desire, simply by manipulating those among the lords who are faithful. Your church does not have that power, at least not in the Provinces, although I’ve heard your church holds tremendous power in Andover across the ocean. It was a driving force behind the Feud that has torn Andover apart for the last sixty years.” As he spoke, he motioned for Erae
th and the rest of the Phalanx to gather the horses. “I do not think this news of the sukrael will affect the main reason that we go to Caercaern, but it will complicate matters. The acolytes are the only ones who would know of the whereabouts of any of the Wells—their locations may appear in the Scripts—but if we approach them, they will become involved. In everything.”

  And that was what Aeren dreaded. He’d dealt with the Order before, had been an acolyte until his father had been killed on the plains. Forced to return to the House lands and assume the role of ascension beneath his brother, Aureon, he still considered himself one of the devout followers of Aielan’s Light. But he’d never appreciated their manipulation of the members of the Evant. Lotaern, the Chosen, leader of the Order, had been disappointed when Aeren left the Order. But Aeren was wise enough to realize that his return to the Rhyssal House gave Lotaern influence over Aeren and his House in the Evant, influence the Chosen would not hesitate to use. He’d seen it in Lotaern’s eyes the last time they’d met as Chosen and acolyte.

  He would have to approach Lotaern about the Shadows and the Wells as soon as possible, to warn him of the possibility of attack from the sukrael if nothing else, and the potential aid of the antruel—the Faelehgre. But perhaps he could enlist Lotaern’s aid in approaching the Evant about the dwarren. Influence was a dual-edged blade.

  Eraeth signaled that the Phalanx was ready and Aeren turned to Colin. “You should stay with us, now that we’re within Alvritshai lands. Ride if necessary, although we’ll be moving more slowly than on the plains. And keep the colors of the Rhyssal House you wear visible at all times. Few humans have traveled among the Alvritshai, fewer still across our holdings. And when we reach Caercaern . . .”

  “Don’t draw attention to myself,” Colin finished.

  Aeren nodded, then heard Eraeth mutter in Alvritshai under his breath, “That’s going to be impossible.”

  And they moved, swiftly, past wide, flattened valleys and farmland claimed from the dwarren decades past. The acreage was broken up by mounds of earth with low walls of stone on top for irrigation and a complex system of stone aqueducts that brought snowmelt down from the mountains to the lowlands. The fields were mostly barren, only dead vines and vegetation left after the harvest. Late winter grains were being scythed and mounded to dry in some. The air held a frigid bite, settling in the evenings and growing colder through the night, a taste of the coming winter. They passed through towns, the buildings a blend of wood and stone, tiered, with curved, wooden- shingled rooflines up to the base of the next floor, rising at least three levels in height, the largest up to six tiers high. Chimes dangled down from the apex of some, rung at intervals throughout the day. Aeren couldn’t help comparing his own homeland to that of the humans, and he found the Provinces lacking. Alvritshai towns were cleaner, the architecture richer, the structures more pleasing to the eye. Hidden gardens and gurgling fountains were everywhere, with stone bridges crossing the streams and aqueducts at regular intervals, everything integrated into the surrounding land.

  As they traveled, more and more roadways met their own, all paved, all in better repair than anything the humans had constructed. Handheld carts and baskets used by those in the outlying regions yielded to wagons and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. The Alvritshai clothing became more exotic than the rough uniforms worn by those working the fields. Men wore silken shirts and tunics, the cuts severe but with loose folds; women wore blouses with slim leather vests on top, a few with skirts, but most with more practical silken pants. Some wore conical hats woven from the reeds found near most of the streams. They passed through increasingly larger towns, Colin drawing attention everywhere they went, people pausing and pointing, murmuring with heads lowered and hands covering their mouths. They were stopped on more than one occasion by Ionaen Phalanx, the House guards questioning Eraeth and Aeren extensively while frowning and keeping their eyes fixed on Colin, but none of the Phalanx dared detain a Lord of the Evant.

  As they neared Caercaern, Aeren motioned for the Phalanx to mount. He stared up through the edge of the thick trees to the mountains that towered above. They blazed in the sunlight, and he tasted the snow on the air, realized his breath came in plumes before him. He shivered, the roadway mostly in shadow.

  Then they cantered around a twist in the road, and Caercaern came into view. “Welcome to Caercaern,” he murmured, and heard Colin gasp.

  Caercaern rose up out of the trees, a colossal work of stone, tiered like the buildings below, cascades of water running down the mountain to either side. The first tier consisted of a wall built out from the stone face of the mountain; the road leveled off at the wall’s base, running nearly its full length before reaching the gate. Each tier above it acted as another wall, with gates at various positions as they ascended, no two in a direct line. Banners snapped in the wind, and Alvritshai were visible on the walls and rooftops and the bridges and streets that they could see from this vantage.

  “All the buildings that you see, the roads and courtyards, squares and temples, all of it is a facade,” Aeren said as they approached the gates. “The real Caercaern is hidden beneath the mountain. There are enough halls and fountains and pools beneath the stone to house all the Alvritshai for years if necessary.”

  “What do you think?” Dharel asked.

  “It’s . . . huge.” Aeren watched the human struggle for a moment, then shake his head. “I thought the Faelehgre city was exotic, but it’s a frail beauty, made of white stone and narrow towers. And its beauty is fading, collapsing inward. But this . . .”

  Aeren smiled. “Look behind you.”

  Colin turned and gasped again. The entire valley spread out beneath the mountain fortress, hills and trees undulating away, covered in a thin layer of mist. A few towers stood out in the distance, on hilltops and promontories, and the occasional town or city peeked up from the rumpled blanket of forest. Much farther away, the duller browns and yellows of the cultivated fields interrupted the greenery.

  The group drew to a halt at the gates, Eraeth and Aeren nudging their horses forward to speak to the waiting sentries. A caitan of the Resue House Phalanx—also called the White Phalanx—stepped forward to greet them, and Aeren frowned, a shiver of dread coursing through his body. Resue was the Tamaell’s House.

  The Phalanx caitan bowed formally. “Word of your arrival has already reached Tamaell Fedorem’s ears,” he said as he rose, “as well as that of your . . . guest.” The caitan’s eyes flicked toward Colin, conspicuous on his mount because of his shorter stature and darker skin, even though he wore the Rhyssal House colors. “He requests your presence in his private gardens.”

  Aeren scanned the caitan’s accompanying Phalanx, all dressed in the white and red colors of House Resue, all standing at formal attention, faces rigid, revealing nothing. “I intended to visit my own House chambers, to wash the dust of the road from my face,” he said, “and to prepare.”

  The caitan shifted, although his features did not change. “The Tamaell wishes to see you immediately. You may honor your House with your presence later.”

  “Very well.” Aeren bowed his head to the caitan. “My Protector will accompany me. The rest of my Phalanx will retire to my rooms, along with my guest.”

  The caitan returned the nod, then motioned to the members of the Tamaell’s Phalanx that accompanied him. They formed up around Aeren’s group, taking positions of honor, rather than a more formal escort, and Aeren relaxed slightly. A few remained with the caitan.

  He shared a glance with Eraeth as the escort led the others away.

  They were led through the sunlit streets of the first three tiers up into the enclosed fourth tier, the Tamaell’s public chambers. The halls were immaculate, leaves and vines threading up the stone columns set into the walls, murals and friezes around every corner, the ceiling painted to resemble the sky, pale blue, with clouds lining the horizon, the blue fading into a soft, brilliant yellow like the sun at intersecting corridors. Members of th
e White Phalanx, the Tamaell’s House guards, moved about among aides and couriers in House Resue colors, mingling with Phalanx bearing a few other House colors. Audience chambers, dining halls, and other rooms opened off to either side, filled with chairs and tables, plants and statues, all placed with elegant care, yet somehow ostentatious.

  They ascended to the fifth tier. Aeren had only been into these upper rooms a few times. This was the Tamaell’s private tier, and it was significantly different. The walls were a flat polished white stone, the support columns rectangular but without detailed carvings. A few statues and urns and delicately pruned trees were placed in artful locations, lit by angled slants of sunlight from hidden windows. The ceilings were again painted in skyscapes, but the streaming cloud formations all swept inward, toward a central location, the outermost edges the pale white of horizon, shifting from a faint green to a deep blue, then to pale yellow—as if the clouds were tinged with the light of sunset—then deepening to pink and a burnished orange. Near the center of the array of rooms, the orange shifted into a shimmering gold, as if the central chambers were lit by the sun itself.

  Spread throughout the chambers, stationed at corners and outside the Tamaell’s private doors, were pairs of White Phalanx, their gazes flickering over Aeren and Eraeth with cold appraisal, noting weapons and faces, even though they were accompanied by one of their own caitans.

  They drew near the central chambers, close enough that Aeren thought the Tamaell had changed his mind and intended to meet with them in his own private rooms, but at the last moment the caitan turned into a side corridor, and within twenty paces they stepped out onto a wide, walled garden, a series of steps leading down to stone paths and a lush carpet of grass. A cascade of water from the mountain heights above splashed down from the rock face and spilled into a clear pool near the garden’s edge, a stream winding through the sculpted trees and shrubs and flowers before escaping through a hidden grate on the far side.