Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  His knuckles turned white where they gripped the leather-wrapped handle, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he resheathed the blade and set it back in its place. He grabbed the silver- chained necklace resting beside it, closing the white-gold pendant in the shape of flames inside his fist before turning.

  “Get Colin,” Aeren said. “It’s time to pay our respects to Aielan and the Light. We’re going to the Sanctuary.”

  Aeren slid the white-gold flame pendant—symbol of the Order and a signal indicating his standing within the Order—over his neck outside the huge Sanctuary doors. Made entirely of banded wood, the doors glowed in the late morning sunlight, the iron gates that were closed at night already flung open, black against the white-gray of the temple walls to either side. The steps before the doors were littered with small offerings—flowers and shallow bowls of wine mostly—but the wide open plaza itself was empty. Dociern, the second sounding of the chimes, had occurred a short time before, and those who would gather for the third would not arrive for hours.

  Pendant settled, Aeren hesitated.

  “You believe him,” Eraeth said, eyes flickering toward Colin, standing to one side, gaping at the temple. They were speaking Alvritshai.

  “Yes. And I believe it is something the Evant does not have the power to handle.”

  Aeren moved to the Sanctuary doors and knocked. Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and drew him near. The two accompanying Phalanx flanked them.

  After a long moment, the massive wooden doors eased open, moving smoothly, effortlessly, without sound. A frowning acolyte peered out, his gaze flickering over Aeren. “The terciern service will not begin gathering for another—” he began automatically, in a slightly irritated voice.

  And then his gaze grazed the pendant on Aeren’s chest.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, nearly choked on it.

  “I need to speak to Lotaern, the Chosen,” Aeren said. “Immediately. Tell him it regards the Order, not the Evant.”

  The words startled the acolyte, who bowed in apology to Aeren. “I will find Lotaern and relay the message.”

  He stepped back, pushing the door open wider as he did so, and Aeren passed through the vestibule and into the sanctuary proper. As soon as the rounded room opened up before him, lit with a thousand burning candles, the scent of tallow and incense and smoke and oil settling over him like a cloak, he felt the tension slough from his shoulders. He breathed in the heavy scents and released them with a long sigh, bowing his head at the edge of the room, at the edge of its heat, letting the chamber’s silence and calm seep through him.

  Then, lifting his head, he moved toward the center of the room with purpose, to where a shallow basin stood on a low pedestal. Flames burned in the basin, roiling upward, but low. During a ceremony—one of the numerous feasts, or the bonding of a lord and lady—the basin would fill with flame, tendrils of it spilling over its edges. And during a major festival—a solstice or one of the celestial events such as an alignment or an eclipse—the fires would burn white, burn with Aielan’s Light. The floor was stained with soot around the basin’s lip, and with slow reverence, Aeren moved to this ring of shadowed darkness and knelt, bowing his head.

  He found his center, pulled himself to it as he had been trained to do as one of the Order’s acolytes so many years before, and then he pulled in all of the sensations of the chamber—the smells, the soft whuffling of flames, the echoes of the tread of feet trapped in the domed space above—drew all of it in and used it to soothe the ache in his chest. An ache he’d lived with for more years than he could count, an ache that had become unbearable after the loss of his brother.

  He heard the acolyte return, his sandals scraping against the stone floor, hurried, and so he murmured a prayer of thanks to Aielan, traced a finger in the greasy ash-gray soot on the floor, smudging it along one cheek. Then he stood, turning to face the acolyte as he arrived.

  The acolyte bowed, again in apology. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but Lotaern said to show you to his chambers immediately.”

  “You have disturbed nothing. Lead the way.”

  The acolyte drew them out of the main sanctuary into the familiar corridors beyond. They passed a dining hall where acolytes were already preparing for the afternoon meal, a bustling kitchen, a smaller chamber mimicking the outer one for individual prayer by the acolytes themselves, and numerous personal chambers where the acolytes lived. Found by the members of the Order as they traveled Alvritshai lands or worked in the smaller temples scattered throughout nearly all the cities and towns, the acolytes were from all levels of Alvritshai society. Each had displayed a talent, power given to them by Aielan, or had volunteered to serve the Order like Aeren, but only those who had studied and passed through Aielan’s Light could bear the pendant Aeren wore about his neck. As they walked, as he relived a thousand memories from his time here as an acolyte, he found his hand gripping the pendant.

  He would have remained here, if given a choice. Few managed to pass through Aielan’s Light unscathed. Most did not even take the risk, preferring to remain acolytes. But Aeren had needed to prove something—to Lotaern and to himself—before returning to the duties forced upon him by his House. So he’d faced Aielan’s Light, hidden deep within the halls and tunnels of the Sanctuary beneath the mountain.

  They drew up before a large door, and here the acolyte knocked hesitantly. A gruff voice bellowed for them to enter, and the acolyte pulled the door open and motioned Aeren and the others through before vanishing down the corridor without looking back.

  Aeren hesitated a moment. He’d spoken to Lotaern on many previous occasions, during the Sanctuary’s official ceremonies, but those meetings had occurred in the outer chamber or in one of the rooms reserved for meetings close to it. He’d never met with Lotaern here.

  As he stepped over the threshold, the scent of earth and green foliage and some type of flower overwhelmed him. Every available surface of the inner room was covered with plants. They sat on tables, on pedestals, hung from the huge wooden crossbeams that supported the ceiling, and climbed trellises and lattices secured to the walls, reaching toward the sunlight that streamed in from the windows high overhead. A few of the trees bore round fruit—small oranges and bright yellow lemons.

  “Come in,” Lotaern barked from the opposite side of the room, where a worktable had been shoved against the wall. He hovered over a small shrub, tsking as he turned over leaf after leaf with a troubled frown. Grumbling to himself, he moved the plant to one side and turned his attention to Aeren. His gaze skimmed over the others but halted as it fell on Colin. His brow furrowed.

  “Now,” he said, “to what do I owe the honor of this unofficial visit from one of my more promising acolytes?”

  Aeren motioned toward the still open doorway. “May I?”

  Lotaern’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. As one of the Phalanx moved to close the door, then remained there to guard it, Aeren met Lotaern’s dark gaze squarely and said, “I come because of the sarenavriell . . . and the sukrael.”

  Lotaern’s body went rigid, and all emotion drained from his face. “The sarenavriell.”

  “And the sukrael,” Aeren repeated. He realized he’d shifted his stance slightly, that Eraeth and the other Phalanx had done so as well, on guard now, wary. Because Lotaern had not reacted the way Aeren thought he would. “You aren’t surprised.”

  Lotaern didn’t move. “I am surprised. I did not expect you to come here and mention the sarenavriell. I assumed this would concern the Evant and the summons sent by the Tamaell. Obviously, it regards your recent return and whatever news you have brought with you.”

  “And yet,” Aeren repeated, “you aren’t surprised.”

  Lotaern said nothing, still motionless, eyes unreadable. And then he smiled. A grim smile. “You read me too easily, Lord Aeren. Not many within the Evant can do that.”

  Aeren bowed his head. “You honor me.”

  Lotaern snorted. “I’m not certain I meant it as a comp
liment.” He turned away as Aeren raised his head. “What have you come to ask me about the sarenavriell?”

  “I do not come to ask. I’m here to warn you.”

  Lotaern’s hand fell to the desk. “Warn me of what?”

  Aeren didn’t understand Lotaern’s reaction. He could feel the tension in the air, could hear it in Lotaern’s troubled voice. Something else was going on here, something that Aeren knew nothing about. He shared a glance with Eraeth, saw the uncertain shake of his head.

  Lotaern turned back, his expression hard. “Warn me of what?”

  Aeren drew his shoulders back. “While I crossed the plains on my return from the Provinces, I learned that the extent of the sarenavriell has increased.”

  “How do you know this? Were you attacked by the sukrael?”

  “No. We were told so by this man, this human.” Lotaern’s gaze fell on Colin and Aeren watched as the human drew himself up to his full height, his eyes darkening as Lotaern appraised him and, with a sniff, dismissed him.

  “And you believe him.” A statement, but laced with condescension.

  Aeren felt a flash of irritation. “I believe him, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Aeren answered carefully. “When I first met him on the plains, during my Trial, he was a boy.” Lotaern’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he shot Colin another considering look. “I befriended him and all of those on the wagon train, including his father, believing that they were a sign, of significance to my Trial. They had just come onto the plains, did not know of its dangers—the dwarren, the storms, the occumaen.”

  “More of a danger now than back then,” Lotaern muttered, then apologized for his interruption with a wave of his hand. “Please continue.”

  “I tried to warn them away, but it was difficult. We did not speak the same language. They refused to turn back, even when we showed them the burned wagons and slaughtered bodies of a previous party that had run into the dwarren. By this time, we had ventured far into dwarren territory, and we had been noticed. Their wagon train was attacked, but only by a scouting party. When the dwarren were driven away, they returned to their tent city, where an army of dwarren had already been gathered.

  “The wagon train was caught between three clans and the sukrael’s forest. My attempts to warn them of the sukrael were futile. They took refuge near the forest and were attacked by the sukrael. Colin claims to have been found by the antruel, the Guardians of the forest, people he calls the Faelehgre. He says they led him to the sarenavriell, that they had him drink its waters.”

  A deep frown etched lines of disbelief into Lotaern’s face. “I don’t believe it.”

  “How else do you explain his presence? It has been over sixty years since my Trial, and yet here he stands, looking no older than thirty.”

  “Tell him of his . . . abilities,” Eraeth murmured softly.

  “What abilities?” Lotaern snapped.

  Aeren sighed, head bowed, before looking up. “He can alter his appearance so that he is young or old at whim. And he can travel swiftly, faster than any of us. I have no other explanation for these abilities except the sarenavriell.”

  Lotaern turned back to Colin, drifted forward. He drew up close to the human, glared down at him, at least a foot taller, then he leaned forward, so close Colin shifted back slightly before halting himself with clenched jaw and curled fists.

  Lotaern sniffed at Colin’s neck, a long indrawn breath, and held it, eyes closed.

  Colin sent Aeren a confused, angry glance, but Aeren shook his head.

  When Lotaern drew back again, the glare had been replaced by a thoughtful expression. “He smells of the forest. The deep forest. He smells of the Lifeblood.” He hesitated, eyes narrowed, then snatched up Colin’s arm, pulling the sleeve back roughly, exposing the black mark. Aeren was shocked to discover the mark had grown, tendrils extending away from the wrist toward the elbow.

  Lotaern grunted, then let Colin’s hand go. In Andovan, he said, “Become young. Show me what you looked like when you and Aeren first met.”

  Colin’s eyes widened in surprise, Aeren guessed because of Lotaern’s fluent Andovan, but then they narrowed in anger. One hand covered the mark on his arm. “You sniffed me!”

  Lotaern ignored him. “Convince me that you have touched the sarenavriell.”

  Colin snorted, but then he shifted. Skin tightened and muscles toned, until the boy Aeren remembered from their first encounter stood in the center of the room, back rigid, his gaze not wavering from Lotaern’s, whose eyes had widened. The rest of the Phalanx in the room shifted in discomfort. There were no gasps, no sharply indrawn breaths. The Phalanx had already heard of or seen Colin’s powers, and Lotaern was too much of a lord in his own right to react.

  “Can you hold this form? Can you become younger? Older?”

  “I can become any age I want up to my own current age and stay there for as long as I want.”

  In Alvritshai, Aeren interjected, “He was older when we met in Portstown. He seems to be growing younger the longer he stays with us.”

  Lotaern nodded. His disbelief had faded completely, and he now had a scholarly look. “He claims that the Well’s influence has widened?” he asked Aeren.

  “He claims more. He says that the sukrael have created something he calls Wraiths and that those Wraiths have left the forest. The Faelehgre told him this. They also told him that there are other sarenavriell, dormant ones, and that somehow they are being reawakened.”

  Lotaern’s gaze had hardened. “And has he seen these . . . dormant Wells?”

  “He has seen one of the newly reawakened ones.”

  “Where?”

  “In the northern part of the forest, not that far from the Licaeta House borders.”

  Lotaern grunted as if struck and spun away from both Aeren and Colin. From the side, Aeren could see the Chosen pinching his lower lip between his fingers, head bowed, brow creased in furious thought.

  “Forgive me, Chosen, but it appears that you knew something of this already.”

  “And?” Lotaern let his hand drop, the lines of concern smoothing from his face. He became a lord, letting nothing show.

  Aeren felt his irritation spike. “I came to you with this knowledge so that something could be done.”

  The Chosen sighed heavily and began pacing, moving to the far side of the desk. “You put me in an awkward position, Lord Aeren. The Chosen’s purpose is to guard the secrets of the Scripts, and to advise the Evant in the event that something . . . unnatural occurs. The Order was established for this purpose. What you have revealed is one of those secrets, one that every acolyte of a certain rank is sworn to protect, one that I have sworn to protect. I cannot reveal such a secret on a whim, and certainly not on the word of a single human.”

  “But the sukrael—”

  “I was not finished,” Lotaern said. He came to a halt behind the desk, pressed his hands into its polished surface and leaned forward, catching all of them with his gaze. “I would not believe you, or this human, except for two things. The first is that I have already been approached by the Tamaell and Lord Vaersoom from House Licaeta over an . . . incident on Licaeta lands. One of the outposts was attacked over a week ago, the Phalanx members all killed, at their posts, without a mark on their bodies. None of those on duty survived. In addition, a few surrounding Alvritshai villages and towns, those nearest the forest, were also attacked. The few who survived by fleeing report the very shadows themselves came to life to destroy them.”

  “The sukrael.”

  Lotaern nodded grimly. “Lord Vaersoom discounted the initial stories, believing that the villagers were lying, that there must be some other, more mundane explanation, that perhaps it was the dwarren raiding the borderlands as they have for the past hundred years. But he traveled to one of the towns himself, saw the bodies. Like the Phalanx at the outpost, they were found strewn about the town, dead, without a mark on them. Most had fallen while in the act of harvesting later win
ter wheat from the fields, their scythes still in their hands.”

  Aeren glanced toward Eraeth, saw his Protector’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We’d hoped to arrive in time to warn you.”

  Lotaern pushed back from his table. “You have. Before your arrival, I had only suspicions based on vague reports from villagers and the more concrete reports from Lord Vaersoom on the aftermath. You’ve confirmed those suspicions.”

  “And did any of these villagers report on these other creatures, the ones Colin calls Wraiths?”

  “No. They spoke only of shadows. No figures.”

  “So what can we do to protect Licaeta?”

  Lotaern grimaced. “I’m not certain. We’ve never had to battle the sukrael directly before. But there are references to them in the Scripts. I have acolytes researching those references already, but now that we have confirmation, I will double our efforts. I’m afraid that for the moment, the only option is to pull the Alvritshai away from the area of the sukrael’s influence. Does this human, Colin, know how far northward their range extends?”

  Aeren turned to ask, but before he could speak Colin said, “I know a little Alvritshai. I didn’t waste all of my time in the forest sunk in grief. He’s asking about the Shadows.”

  “Yes,” Aeren said in Andovan, wondering how much of the conversation Colin could follow. “He wants to know if you know the extent of the sukrael’s range. They’ve already attacked Alvritshai outposts and villages. And do you know a way to defend against them?”

  “I don’t now what their range is, but I do know it’s expanding. The Well that I found, the one the Wraiths have awakened, it’s filling slowly, and as it fills, its range increases. As for killing the sukrael . . . if you can get them over water, deep water and especially running water, they can’t hold their form.”