Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  Aeren sighed in disappointment. “It’s too much to expect Khalaek to be meeting with a lowly acolyte directly.” His eyes suddenly narrowed, his brows coming together in a deep frown, eyes locked on the entrance to the Halls.

  Both Colin and Eraeth turned to see Lotaern, along with four acolytes, descending the steps.

  “What’s he doing here?” Eraeth asked, his voice sharp. The lull in the surrounding conversation that had occurred when Lotaern arrived ended, and the volume suddenly rose higher. “The Order has no power in the Evant, no representation.”

  Aeren didn’t answer, moving swiftly across the marble floor among the rest of the gathered lords and aides to speak with the Chosen at the bottom of the steps. Eraeth and Colin trailed behind. When they caught up, Aeren broke off his conversation with Lotaern and turned immediately to Eraeth. “He was summoned by the Tamaell and asked to attend. It must be because of the sukrael and the attacks in Licaeta.” Aeren’s gaze darted around the Hall, then fell on Colin. “What else happened at this meeting?”

  Colin shrugged, feeling his hands clenching in frustration. “Nothing. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying. The acolyte passed the other man a piece of paper. It was written in Alvritshai, but looked like some type of map.”

  “You didn’t take the note?”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t. That’s not how it works. I’m there, I can see things and move around, but I can’t move anything else while I’m there. I can take things with me and leave them, but when I let go of them they return to their proper time. They simply change position.”

  “Their proper time?” Eraeth asked.

  “It’s as if time has slowed. If I concentrate and push hard enough, I can even go backward and visit an event that has already occurred. But I can’t change it in any way. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Eraeth drew breath to ask a question, but Colin anticipated him. “I can’t go forward and see what will happen either. I’ve tried that as well.”

  Eraeth let his breath out in a sigh.

  “Interesting,” Aeren said, “and potentially useful.” He turned back to the Chosen and spoke in a hushed voice, Lotaern’s gaze falling heavily on Colin, enough to make him shift uncomfortably. Colin had sensed the Chosen’s curiosity about in him since their initial meeting in the Lotaern’s rooms. He thought that curiosity had faded, but now, with Lotaern’s eyes boring into him . . .

  The sharp rap of metal against stone rang out through the hall, echoing in the vaulted ceiling. All conversation ceased, and Colin turned to see an escort of the White Phalanx accented in red and white now surrounding the raised platform containing the throne and flanking seats. Two guardsmen standing at the corners of the platform carried what looked like large metal pikes, which they raised in unison and drove into the marble at their feet, calling the room to order.

  Eraeth grabbed Colin’s sleeve to catch his attention, and they followed Aeren to where a section of the circular seating had been draped with cloth of blue and red. Everyone in the Hall moved to their prescribed area as one of the White Phalanx near the platform stepped forward and cleared his throat. As he spoke, Eraeth leaned to the side and translated for Colin.

  “This session of the Evant, under the Ascension of House Resue, with all of the Lords of the Houses of the Evant in attendance, and under the auspicious and blessed eye of the Order of Aielan—” here the attendant bowed toward Lotaern, who nodded in acknowledgment as a murmur rose among the lords “—is hereby called to order.” The two Phalanx with the pikes slammed them into the floor twice more. “Tamaell Fedorem, Tamaea Moiran, and Tamaell Presumptive Thaedoren,” the attendant announced. Then he dropped to one knee, back bent, head bowed, hands resting on the upthrust knee.

  Colin saw Aeren’s back straighten as the three Alvritshai entered the room, emerging from some hidden doorway behind the platform, the Tamaell first, followed by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. Beside him, Eraeth’s breath caught, and Colin scanned the room, noticed the same shocked wariness on the faces of most of the lords in attendance.

  “What is it?” Colin whispered to Eraeth.

  “The Tamaell’s heir hasn’t been called to a session of the Evant for nearly twenty years. He shouldn’t even be in Caercaern. He’s part of the White Phalanx, one of their caitans, and he’s been carrying out duties along the dwarren border since a falling out with his father. Each House has its own Phalanx and guards its own borders, but the White Phalanx augments those forces and shares the burden since the Tamaell’s House does not border either the human or the dwarren lands. Since their argument, Thaedoren has elected to remain on the border. The Tamaell must have recalled him.”

  “Recalled him in secret,” Aeren added without turning, his voice drifting back to them. “It doesn’t appear that any of the other lords knew of it.”

  Colin drew breath to ask what it meant, but at that moment, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive both took their seats at a gesture from the Tamaell. The attendant who had announced him rose and moved swiftly back into the line of Phalanx beneath the platform, all of the guardsmen now standing at attention.

  Then the Tamaell began to speak, his deep voice filling the room. After a moment, Colin realized that Eraeth had no intention of translating the entire session, but he tugged on Eraeth’s sleeve and asked, “What’s he saying?”

  Eraeth looked down on him with an annoyed glare, then said, “He’s introducing Aeren as the reason for the summons. In a moment, he’s going to hand it over to him. I won’t be able to translate with everyone’s eyes on him, so shut up.”

  Before Colin could react, the Tamaell motioned toward Aeren and then settled back onto his throne. Aeren hesitated a moment, head bowed, then rose and stepped out into the central oval.

  When he finally spoke, his gaze circling the gathered lords, catching all of their attention, his voice was steady, slow, and purposeful. Colin saw the tension at the corners of his eyes and felt the same power vibrating throughout the chamber that he’d heard in the King’s chambers at Corsair. He struggled to understand what Aeren said, determined that he spoke of the dwarren and assumed it was about the meeting on the plains, but his grasp on Alvritshai was too tenuous. Yet he felt the earnestness behind the words, the conviction.

  Colin glanced toward Eraeth, but the Protector was focused entirely on Aeren and on how the other lords were reacting. He sighed and settled back, began taking in the lords and their retinues.

  The Chosen of the Order had been seated on the far side of the circle, opposite the Tamaell. He kept his attention on Aeren, but occasionally an attendant would approach and after a discreet pause, or when Aeren had turned slightly away, the Chosen would accept a note, or lean back to receive a whispered message. Often, he would simply nod, or his glance would shoot toward one of the other lords with a frown or small gesture with one hand. Only once did he actually murmur in return, the messenger scurrying back.

  Colin followed this messenger with his eyes and grunted to himself when he realized the messenger had come from Lord Khalaek. The lord received the response with a dark, worried frown and glanced toward Lotaern, but the Chosen ignored him. Disgusted, Khalaek’s hand formed into a fist, his glance skipping toward two of the other lords, ones that Colin didn’t know, before settling on the Tamaell.

  Colin didn’t know what was going on, but Khalaek appeared troubled.

  He’d begun to turn away when a slight movement behind Khalaek caught his eye.

  Someone had entered the room late and now shifted forward through the seats to join Khalaek’s retinue. He moved slowly so as not to draw attention to himself, like the messengers, but unlike the messengers, he came from the height of the room, not from those seated around the central circle of the hall.

  Colin shifted forward and scanned the room, but neither Eraeth nor Aeren had noticed the new arrival. He turned back in time to see the man slip closer to Khalaek, standing back, waiting patiently to be acknowledged, something held in one ha
nd. His face was turned away, but when Khalaek finally noticed him and leaned back, the man turned and faced Colin directly.

  Brown eyes. Angular features. Short hair, but not short enough to be a member of the Phalanx, not long enough to be a commoner.

  Colin gasped, the sound cutting through the growing conversation on the floor as more and more lords rose to question Aeren. Aeren cut off, turning toward Colin with a raised eyebrow, but Eraeth spun with a glare, one hand clamping down hard on Colin’s shoulder as he hissed for silence. Colin waved an apology, not daring to look in Khalaek’s direction.

  When Aeren turned back to address the Evant again, Colin yanked on Eraeth’s sleeve hard enough that the Protector growled.

  “It’s him,” Colin said. “The man who met Benedine.”

  Eraeth straightened. “Where?”

  “He came in after Aeren started speaking and handed Lord Khalaek a note.”

  “The note he got from Benedine?”

  “I think so, but I can’t tell from here. Should I—?” He made a fluttering gesture with his hand, but Eraeth’s eyes widened slightly in horror.

  “Not here!”

  Colin frowned in disgust, but then his gaze fell on Lotaern. The Chosen was watching him with that same concentrated interest he’d shown before. The other lords may have turned their attention back to Aeren, but not Lotaern.

  “Keep an eye on him as best you can,” Eraeth said, his own gaze flicking toward Khalaek’s location, but not lingering long. “I’ll inform Aeren.” He shifted forward, so that he stood beside the seat designated for Aeren, unobtrusive, but far enough forward to catch Aeren’s attention.

  Colin settled in to watch the man who’d met with Benedine, conscious of Lotaern’s continued interest as a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck.

  “—find it distasteful that you would presume to begin talks with the dwarren, let alone the humans, without first seeking the advice and counsel of the Evant,” Lord Peloroun stated. His words were civil, but the tone was bitter. “What of those of us who have lands bordering along the plains? What of our losses over the last hundred years? Do we not have a say in whether peace should be sought with them?”

  Aeren didn’t respond at first, waiting to see if Peloroun’s tirade would continue, but the lord shook his head in disgust and returned to his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Aeren could see Lord Jydell and Lord Waerren nodding slightly. None of the issues brought up against his proposal so far had been unexpected, but the resistance he felt from the Evant was greater than he’d anticipated. Yet it wasn’t the lords that bothered him.

  It was the Tamaell . . . and the presence of Lotaern. Fedorem had said nothing since he’d called the session into order and handed the proceedings over to Aeren. He sat in silence, even as the lords attacked him, the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive to either side. Aeren risked a quick glance at the three, not certain what the presence of the Tamaea and the Presumptive indicated, but all three were watching him, waiting for him to respond. The Tamaea frowned slightly, but otherwise there was no sign of what any of them were thinking.

  As for Lotaern . . .

  He shook his head and turned fully toward Lord Peloroun. “I realize that the majority of the burden placed on the Alvritshai regarding the dwarren has fallen on you and those with lands along the plains, Lord Peloroun, but what I have to offer—what the dwarren seem willing to accept—is a release of that burden from you altogether. Would it not be beneficial to all concerned if the tension along the border eased? How many resources do you and Lords Jydell, Waerren, and Khalaek expend on guarding the border, resources that could be used for something productive, such as farming or the expansion of the irrigation canals?”

  “But what of our losses?” Lord Peloroun growled. “What of the destruction the dwarren have caused? What of the loss of life, of family and kin, killed during the raids?”

  “You would rather risk the lives of those who remain by continuing to fight, when there is a chance to end it?” Aeren let some of his own pain color his voice. “You are not the only one who has lost family to the dwarren. Do not presume to claim a greater pain than the rest of us—”

  He would have continued, but a sharp gasp interrupted him. He cut off and turned to see Colin, eyes wide, Eraeth’s hand clamped onto his shoulder. The human caught Aeren’s gaze and held it, but then waved his hand in mute frustration. As Aeren turned away, he saw Eraeth speaking to him. Aeren turned back to Peloroun, his voice hardening.

  “As I was saying, we have all suffered. I, for one, am tired of it.”

  “But some of us are not,” Peloroun said, leaning forward. “Some of us have lost sons to the dwarren and are not so ready to forgive.”

  “Some of us have lost our entire family to the dwarren,” Aeren countered.

  Peloroun rose at the challenge in Aeren’s tone but before he could say anything, Tamaell Fedorem stood and said, “Enough.”

  The word sliced through the tension in the room as smoothly as a blade, and everyone’s attention turned toward the platform. Aeren noticed that Eraeth had stood and moved to the edge of the Evant’s inner circle and made his way to his Protector’s side to clear the floor. When Eraeth drew breath to speak, he waved him to silence.

  Tamaell Fedorem waited until he had everyone’s attention, the room falling utterly silent, then stepped forward to the edge of the platform, his face impassive.

  “As Lord Aeren has pointed out, we have all suffered from this prolonged war with the dwarren and the humans. We have all lost loved ones as well as friends. We are not here to dispute that. And we are not here to determine who has suffered more or less than the others. Such a thing cannot be determined, no matter how long we spend in this room arguing over it.

  “What we are here to discuss, and what we are here to decide, is whether or not it is time to seek peace with the dwarren. Lord Aeren has provided us with . . . an opportunity.” Fedorem smiled tightly and turned to the Tamaea, who bowed her head. “We have been at odds with the dwarren for nearly two hundred years, the war fluctuating, with intense periods of battle and long years of tension and general unrest. During these years, many decisions were made, all with the good of the Alvritshai in mind, even though in retrospect not all of those decisions were . . . wise.”

  A low murmur arose, although it died quickly. Aeren shot a glance at Eraeth, eyes raised in question, but his Protector shrugged. He wondered if the Tamaell’s words refered to the decisions made at the battle at the Escarpment, but there was no way to tell. If they had . . .

  If they had, then perhaps there was hope after all.

  And as if he were answering that hope, the Tamaell continued. “We have lived in a period of general stability in the last thirty years, since the Escarpment. Mistakes were made then that cannot be easily rectified, but Lord Aeren has given us a chance to start. I think it is time to start.” He cast his gaze out over the Evant, catching each and every lord’s eye.

  “There are those who will disagree with me. There are those who feel that what the dwarren have done in the past cannot be so easily forgiven. But I am not willing to let this opportunity pass by. Because of this, I will be traveling to meet with the dwarren, accompanied by the Tamaea and the Tamaell Presumptive. In addition, I would ask that the Chosen of the Order be part of my escort, as well as Lord Aeren and any of the remaining Lords of the Evant who wish to take part. I will not require this of any of you, and those who chose to remain behind will not be censured in any way.

  “But it is time for these skirmishes—these raids and this war—to come to an end. It is time that I begin to rectify the mistakes I have made in the past. If the dwarren are willing, if they are sincere in their offer, then it will come to an end.”

  The Tamaell let the silence that followed his announcement hang for a long moment, the lords stunned. Then he turned to Aeren.

  “I assume that you will agree to accompany me, Lord Aeren?”

  Aeren pulled himself out
of shocked immobility and bowed formally. “Of course, Tamaell.”

  Fedorem nodded once, then turned to Lotaern. “And you, Chosen?”

  “Aielan has always and shall always support peace. May her Light guide us all in this.”

  In the end, all protests and disagreements were set aside as all of the lords, including Khalaek, agreed to take part in the meeting on the plains.

  “Then it is agreed,” Tamaell Fedorem said. “We shall meet with the dwarren and their Gathering in two weeks time. Gather your escorts. We will depart in two days.”

  17

  “KHALAEK AGREED TO COME TOO EASILY,” Eraeth said in Andovan, so that Colin could understand.

  “Especially considering that the Tamaell all but declared that his support of Khalaek and the others over the last thirty years has been a mistake,” Aeren said.

  “He still has not answered the real question,” Lotaern muttered as he handed off orders for supplies to be gathered for the envoy to waiting acolytes, then turned his attention toward Colin, Aeren, and Eraeth. They’d gathered in his offices in the Sanctuary, the plants shoved to the side, the room bustling with activity. They were departing tomorrow at dociern, the second chiming. “He didn’t say what his mistake back at the Escarpment was. Did he plan the betrayal of King Maarten, along with Khalaek and the others? Or did he simply take advantage of the opportunity at the time and claim the betrayal as his own?”

  When neither Aeren nor Eraeth answered, the silence unsettled, Lotaern grunted and continued. “But I agree. Khalaek agreed too quickly, and because he agreed Lord Peloroun and Lord Waerren agreed to come as well. And now you claim that Benedine’s actions are indeed connected to him?”

  “So it would seem. The Phalanx followed Benedine to a courtyard on Brae. There, Benedine met with a man that Colin identified as one of Lord Khalaek’s aides.”

  Lotaern swore. As he did, the hairs on Colin’s arms prickled, standing on end. He felt something brush past him, like a gust of wind, and he turned toward the open door to the Chosen’s office with a frown, a shiver coursing through him. He tasted dry leaves in his mouth, smelled damp earth. “What was that?” he asked sharply.