Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  Lotaern nodded, frowning in thought. “Our research has pointed to water as a defense on more than one occasion. Perhaps the aqueducts will be useful. I will inform Lord Vaersoom.”

  Aeren waited a moment, then said, “You mentioned a second reason?”

  Lotaern smiled grimly. “Yes. The second is the fact that nearly a month ago, one of my acolytes came to me with a rather bizarre request. He wished to do research on the Scripts, personal research.”

  “On what?” Aeren said, stepping forward toward the desk.

  “On the sarenavriell. I agreed to give him access to the Scripts, to allow him to do his research. It is not unheard of, especially when an acolyte has ambition. And this acolyte does. But this request felt . . . odd. So I watched him as he did his research, and when he left the Scriptorium, I perused the texts he’d used, noted the passages he’d copied, the maps he’d drawn. Would you care to guess where his interest in the sarenavriell lay? Not on their power, not on their uses, nor the lore surrounding them, but rather—”

  “On their location,” Aeren finished.

  “Precisely. He’s been researching where the sarenavriell are, attempting to find where they have been hidden. Some of them are known, such as the one in the forest. Most have been lost. But according to the passages this acolyte referred to, one was hidden in the northern forests.”

  “This acolyte,” Eraeth said, his voice harsh. “What is his name? What House does he belong to?”

  Lotaern gave him a placid look. “Acolytes rescind their House ties when they enter the Order. They are connected to no House, are beholden to no lord.”

  Eraeth snorted, but before he could respond, Aeren broke in. “We both know that House ties are not so easily broken, no matter what vows are involved.” He touched the band around his wrist and the two lord’s rings on his fingers. His House had not been forgotten once he entered the Sanctuary.

  Lotaern tapped his fingers on the desk. “True. And given what’s been happening in the Evant lately . . .” He began walking back toward the table against the far wall, where more plants waited. “I expect to be kept apprised of any actions that you take, and to be told of any information that you gather.”

  “Of course,” Aeren said, bowing his head. He could feel where his hand gripped the hilt of his cattan. He didn’t know when his hand had drifted to it, but when Lotaern finally spoke, back to them all, he realized he’d already guessed what House the acolyte belonged to.

  “The acolyte’s name is Benedine,” Lotaern said, “and he’s originally from House Duvoraen. Lord Khalaek’s House.”

  “He’s left the Sanctuary,” Eraeth reported, and Colin watched his face twist into a vicious grin as he crumpled the small note that the Alvritshai boy on the street had handed him in passing.

  “Who?” Aeren said, in Andovan, since that’s what Eraeth had used.

  “Benedine. The acolyte.”

  Aeren grunted, but he remained focused on the plaza ahead and the hundreds of Alvritshai that lined it. They were headed toward the Hall of the Evant, a huge ornate building at the end of the marketplace. Colin could see the thick arched colonnades that surrounded the circular building within, beyond the mass of people, carts, and small tents that had been set up in the plaza itself. Sunlight beat down, but it didn’t take the bite of winter out of the air, nor the metallic sharpness of snow. The marketplace was a cacophony of noise, most of which Colin couldn’t understand, since it was all in Alvritshai. He could pick out phrases and words here and there, but he couldn’t follow entire conversations.

  “Dharel is following him,” Eraeth said. He almost reached out to halt Aeren as they forged their way toward the Hall, restraining himself with effort.

  Aeren glanced over his shoulder and caught his Protector’s expression. “The Evant intends to meet in three hours,” he said.

  “We will return before the meeting begins.”

  Aeren frowned. “Very well.”

  Eraeth bowed from the waist, gave orders to the rest of Aeren’s Phalanx, then gripped Colin’s arm and dragged him away into the crowd, heading back toward the plaza’s entrance and the streets beyond with a grim glint of anticipation in his eyes.

  Halfway back to the street, Colin jerked his arm out of the Protector’s grip. “I’m coming,” he protested. “You don’t have to drag me.”

  Eraeth drew up short, his eyes narrowing. Colin felt himself shiver at the raw intensity in Eraeth’s gaze, at the dangerous heat to it—

  But then that heat cooled, and the tension in Eraeth’s shoulders relaxed. “I apologize. But we’ll have to move quickly if we’re to be of any use following the acolyte.”

  Colin nodded in return, tugging his shirt back into place, smoothing the folds where Eraeth had gripped his arm. “Lead the way. I can keep up.”

  Eraeth frowned at the not so subtle reminder. “Stay close. You’ll draw attention, and you’re safe only as long as you’re with me. Most of the people in Caercaern have lost family to the wars with the Provinces.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed toward the street.

  They moved out of the plaza and turned to the right, staying close to the buildings, passing the open doors and windows of businesses, winding past carts laden with produce and wares, one full of straw, another some type of melon. Colin definitely drew attention, mostly shock, titters of laugher, and a few angry glares, but not as much as he’d drawn outside the city, closer to the plains. As they neared the ramp and the gates leading down to the first tier, Colin saw the flash of Rhyssal House colors on one side. Before he could point it out, Eraeth saw it as well and cut sharply to the left.

  It was one of the Phalanx in Dharel’s group. The guard tucked the cloth he’d used to catch Eraeth’s attention back into a pocket. He wasn’t dressed in the typical House colors or in the Phalanx’s usual garb. Instead, he wore the flatter, looser clothing of the people in the street, all whites and grays and duns.

  Eraeth spoke to him briefly, words too clipped for Colin to follow, then turned a hardened gaze back down the street they’d just traversed.

  “What is it?” Colin asked. His breath came in shallow gasps. Eraeth had been moving fast.

  Eraeth shot him a glance before returning to his scan of the crowd. “The acolyte is already here, in the second tier.” He turned back to the Phalanx guard, said something in Alvritshai, then nodded. “The acolyte headed toward the courtyard.”

  On the far side of the street, a large wrought iron gate stood half-open between two other shops, the bright green of plants on both sides inside the entrance. Sunlight lanced down on the interior, suggesting a large open space.

  They slid from the main flow of the crowd, to the right of the courtyard’s entrance. Dharel stood at the corner, back against the building, one foot resting against its side. Every now and then, he’d turn and peer into the courtyard beyond, a passing glance, as if he were bored. When he caught sight of Eraeth and Colin, he straightened. “He’s inside, in the shadows of the far corner, near the fountain. There’s hardly anyone in the courtyard at the moment. I couldn’t enter without being noticed.”

  Eraeth scanned the inner courtyard with one glance, no more than a breath long, then turned to Colin with a grim look. “There aren’t many places to hide. It’s an open courtyard, a fountain in the far corner, a few potted plants near the walls, a portico against the back wall. The portico is mostly in the shade, so I can’t see Benedine or if anyone is there with him.” His gaze fell on Colin. “Can you do it?”

  “Let’s find out,” Colin said, lacing the words with irritation. Before Eraeth could respond—but not before Colin saw his eyes begin to darken with a sharp reply—Colin let the world slow. The street stilled. People halted in midstep, one man in midfall, the contents of the basket he carried already spilling onto the stone walkway. Colin slid around them all and walked through the open gate and into the courtyard, shivering at the silence.

  The courtyard was set up exactly as Eraeth had descri
bed. Colin headed straight toward the fountain and the shadows of the portico.

  He found the acolyte in the shade of the roof, his back toward Colin. Another Alvritshai faced him, hand raised to accept a folded piece of paper from Benedine, mouth open. His eyes were hard, face etched with angry warning. Dressed like Dharel and the rest, in commoner’s clothing, Colin thought he was actually a member of the Phalanx or a high-ranking member of a House, based on his arrogant posture and the dark hair tied back behind his head. It wasn’t as long as it should be for a commoner.

  Colin scanned for a good place to hide so that he could watch or overhear the conversation, but there wasn’t anything beneath the portico except a set of closed doors along the back wall, beneath the roof. Cursing, he stepped back out into the edged sunlight and considered the colonnades.

  They were thin, no thicker than his body. But perhaps . . .

  He positioned himself behind one, standing sideways to minimize his profile, sucked in a deep breath, then let time slip back into motion—

  And spat silent curses. The men were speaking Alvritshai. He could only understand a few words they said. He nearly stilled everything again to retreat back to Eraeth, but he halted as the unknown man barked at Benedine, something about a map and the sarenavriell and forests, his voice low but carrying well, even with the gurgling of the fountain to one side. Colin heard the crinkle of paper. He didn’t think the acolyte replied.

  A long pause. Colin felt sweat beading on his forehead as he waited, tense; he almost raised a hand to wipe it off but realized that would be seen and stopped himself.

  Then the unknown man spoke again, a question, urgent and forceful.

  A scuffling of feet, and the acolyte responded, his uncertainty obvious.

  The other man berated him, but then his irritation vanished. He sighed heavily, murmured something so low that Colin strained to hear its tenor and tone over the fountain. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of an arm, as if someone had raised their hand to pat someone on the back or grip their shoulder—

  And then he saw the acolyte, heading toward the open courtyard.

  He stilled time with a gasp, lurching back from Benedine’s sight, even though he knew the acolyte couldn’t see him. Berating himself, he turned back to the acolyte and the unknown Alvritshai. The meeting was over, and Benedine had headed back to the street. The acolyte couldn’t see the look the other man had given his turned back as he left. A calculated look, so cold that Colin shuddered.

  But the unknown man still held the paper in one hand.

  And it was unfolded.

  Colin skirted to the man’s side so he could see the contents of the note. Most of it was written in Alvritshai and was unreadable, but the rest . . .

  Looking at the man with the note one more time, memorizing the features of his face, the dark eyes, the heavy brow and angular cheekbones, Colin retreated back across the courtyard, positioning himself between Eraeth and Dharel before letting time flow again.

  “I couldn’t understand everything that they said,” Colin said in irritation.

  All three of the Phalanx members—Eraeth, Dharel, and the man who’d found them near the gates—flinched. All of their hands dropped to their cattans reflexively, but only the unnamed guard actually drew the blade, a few finger’s worth of metal showing in the sunlight before he caught himself.

  “Why?” Eraeth asked.

  “Because they were speaking Alvritshai,” Colin said dryly.

  He felt gratified when Eraeth’s eyebrows rose as he realized their mistake, but then the Protector growled, “You’ll have to learn to speak it. Fluently. And write it.”

  Dharel hissed, and they all fell silent.

  “What is it?” Eraeth asked, slipping back to the corner near the gate.

  “I think Shaeveran may have been spotted. Benedine has stopped.”

  Colin edged far enough out into the street so that he could see the inside of the courtyard. Benedine had circled the colonnade Colin had stood behind. He scanned the shade beneath the portico, said something to the man he’d met, and turned back to the sunlight, his brow creased, mouth set in a tight frown.

  As his gaze swung to scan the plaza, Eraeth and Dharel withdrew, and Colin stepped to the side, out of view.

  Eraeth grinned smugly. “He won’t find anything. He probably caught a flicker of your shadow. Now, what happened? You were there too long to have just retreated.”

  “He met with someone beneath the portico. I didn’t recognize him. Benedine gave him a piece of paper, a map of some kind.”

  “A map of what?”

  “I couldn’t tell. But it had mountains on it, a few rivers. I couldn’t read any of the markings on it. But they did mention the Wells.”

  Eraeth growled again, but before he could say anything, Dharel pulled away from the courtyard’s entrance and said, “He’s coming.”

  Without a word, Eraeth caught Colin’s arm and steered him toward the street, entering the flow of the passersby smoothly. Colin sighed and almost jerked his arm free again, but Benedine appeared, and Eraeth relaxed his grip. They angled across the street, coming to a halt on the far side before a meat market, the smell of blood strong.

  “Do you want us to continue following him?” Dharel asked.

  Benedine glanced in both directions, searching, the frown still twisting his mouth, but then he headed back toward the gate and the Sanctuary.

  Eraeth nodded. “Go. Let me know if he does anything other than sit in the Sanctuary.”

  Dharel grinned, then bled into the crowd. In a matter of a heartbeat, he and the other Phalanx guardsman were lost from sight.

  Eraeth turned back to Colin. “We need to reach the Hall and report to Aeren.”

  It took them another hour to reach the Hall, the marketplace thronged with too many people hawking wares, even with most of them falling back or shifting out of the way once they spotted Colin and realized, despite his clothing, that he wasn’t Alvritshai. Women ducked their heads and averted their eyes, but not before Colin could catch a flash of emotion—fear, hatred, surprise. One spat on the stone before him, and Eraeth barked something in Alvritshai that made her bow down in supplication, although it wasn’t heartfelt. Men glared openly, their anger barely controlled. The children merely gawked.

  They broke through into an open area around the circular colonnades, the Hall tucked away beneath their tall forms. This close, the stonework of the Hall was magnificent, etched and chiseled into myriad reliefs—Alvritshai working the earth with hoe or gathering wheat with scythes and rakes; lords surrounding the Tamaell in a coronation ceremony; Alvritshai bowed down before a huge basin of fire, members of the Order in the background, hands reaching for the sky. Birds of a variety that Colin had never seen, brown with startling flashes of black and swatches of red, flitted among the nooks and crannies of the stonework.

  Eraeth headed directly toward the Hall’s entrance, heavy stone double doors, both flung open to the sunlight. He nodded in passing to the Phalanx inside the foyer, a pair for each House of the Evant, then pushed through a set of polished wooden inner doors.

  The Hall within was huge, circular arrays of seats surrounding a large open area. The arch of the circle broke on the opposite side from the entrance, where one large throne flanked by two smaller seats sat on a raised platform lined with folds of a heavy, rich, red fabric, accented in white.

  The platform was empty, but the floor was not. Lords and their advisers and escorting Phalanx mingled in a loose throng, the rumble of numerous conversations filling the Hall, the colors of their clothing a bright splash in the pale whites and grays of the stonework and the stark white of the marble floor. Eraeth paused at the top of the stairs descending down to the main floor as he searched those gathered for Rhyssal colors. He tugged Colin’s sleeve, nodding to the left. “Aeren is there.”

  They moved down the steps. When they reached Aeren’s side, Eraeth edged behind the Alvritshai Aeren was speaking to
and caught his attention. A moment later, Aeren broke off his conversation, and Eraeth pulled him to one side.

  “What happened?” Aeren asked. He kept his attention focused on Eraeth, but his eyes roamed the room.

  “The acolyte met with someone in the courtyard on Brae.”

  “Who?”

  Eraeth shook his head, lips pursed. “We don’t know. Only Colin saw him.”

  “What did he look like?” Aeren asked, his gaze flicking toward Colin.

  “He had dark hair, almost black, and he wore common clothing. But I don’t think he was a commoner.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because his hair wasn’t long enough. He’d tied it back, but it still seemed too short. Longer than either yours or Eraeth’s, though.”

  “Most of the lords don’t wear their hair as short as I do,” Aeren said, “nor do their assistants and aides.” His gaze fixed on someone on the floor, and he asked, “Is that him?” with a barely perceptible nod. “The man in black and gold.”

  Colin tried to turn casually and noticed that many of the surrounding Alvritshai were looking at him from the corners of their eyes. Sweat broke out on his back, and his skin prickled. He found the man Aeren had pointed out. Dark hair, cropped shorter than a commoner. But this man’s face was narrower, sharper, giving it a predatory look.

  The man in black and gold moved and caught Colin’s gaze. Ice cascaded through Colin’s arms, and with effort he tore his eyes away, but not before he saw the corner of the man’s mouth turn upward in a frigid half-smile.

  “Who is that?”

  Aeren smiled tightly. “That’s Lord Khalaek,” he said blandly, “my rival in the Evant, the one most likely to oppose my proposal today. He arrived a mere fifteen minutes before you did, which is unusual. Is he the man who met with Benedine?”

  Colin shook his head. “No. He has black eyes. The man who met Benedine had dark eyes, but they were brown. And Khalaek’s face is too narrow.”