Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  She accepted it all in silence, staring down at her hands. When he was done, she looked up, her eyes more troubled than before, somehow deeper and darker. “And you have not told the Tamaell?”

  He shook his head with a frustrated snort and shrugged. “Lotaern has informed the Tamaell of the awakening of the sarenavriell and the reason for the attacks on the eastern Houses by the sukrael. As for the link between that and Khalaek . . . what is there to tell? We have no proof of anything. And then—” He cut himself off.

  “And then what?” She stared at him in confusion, and in her eyes he saw sudden comprehension. “You think the Tamaell may be involved somehow.” The realization was followed immediately by anger. “Fedorem would never conspire with Khalaek—”

  “Wouldn’t he? What happened at the Escarpment, then? Can you say without doubt that he did not conspire with Khalaek to bring about Maarten’s death?”

  That brought the Tamaea up short. He could see her struggling with words, trying to come to her husband’s defense, to the Tamaell’s defense . . .

  But in the end, she sagged with defeat. “No. I cannot say that without doubt.” Her voice hardened. “But I do not believe that Fedorem is conspiring with Khalaek. And especially not with the sukrael or these . . . these Wraiths. I refuse to believe it.”

  She said it with such vehemence that Aeren felt himself relaxing. He hadn’t known how the Tamaea would react to the implied deceit.

  “Even if Fedorem isn’t dealing with the Wraiths, Khalaek is. And neither Lotaern nor I have any idea why.”

  The Tamaea pursed her lips in thought. “Everything Khalaek has done since he ascended in his House has been to bring him closer to the Tamaell. He wants to rule the Evant.”

  “He wants to rule the Alvritshai,” Aeren countered.

  “Is there a difference?”

  Aeren didn’t answer. “What do you think the Tamaell will do about the Legion?”

  It was not a question he would normally have asked the Tamaea. She was not a lord, was not part of the Evant. But the fact that she had called him here, the fact that she understood immediately what the presence of the Legion meant . . .

  She watched him silently for a long moment, but he could not read her expression. All of her thoughts were hidden.

  Like a lord.

  “I think,” she said, then paused, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a weary sigh. “I think he cannot afford to ignore the presence of the Legion.”

  Aeren nodded and found himself regarding the Tamaea with new eyes. “He can’t,” he said, and shifted so he could rise, gathering himself to depart. The Tamaea did not stop him. “He won’t.”

  “Then we are headed toward war. Again.”

  Aeren felt a flare of anger. “It would appear so.” He turned toward the tent’s opening.

  “What about the dwarren? Will he still seek out the dwarren?”

  Aeren paused, one hand on the soft material of the flap, holding it back.

  In the corridor outside, he saw a flicker of movement, a blurred shadow, nothing more.

  He flung the flap back completely, his heart pounding in his chest, his hand falling to the hilt of his cattan, the tent shaking with the force of his movement.

  “What is it?” the Tamaea gasped behind him, surging to her feet.

  Aeren ignored her, didn’t even turn. He scanned the narrow corridor beyond, the folds of cloth undulating in the light and shadows thrown by the lanterns of the room where they’d dined. But he saw nothing, no figures, no shapes. Nothing.

  “Shaeveran?” he asked. His voice cracked with tension.

  The Tamaea moved up behind him, stared out into the darkness of the tent around him.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I saw . . .”

  “What?”

  “A shadow,” he said, forcing himself to release the grip on his sheathed blade. He turned to give the Tamaea a reassuring smile but was startled to find her holding a thin knife defensively in one hand. Not one of the knives from the table. This was a fighting knife, one used for close personal combat.

  He caught her gaze and saw the challenge in her eyes. She wanted him to ask about the knife, a weapon that no one would expect the Tamaea to possess, let alone know how to use.

  Instead, he repeated, “It must have been a shadow.”

  Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she nodded. “Very well.” Aeren found himself reassessing her yet again. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push him either, moving away from the entrance of the tent. She set the thin blade on the edge of the table containing the remains of their meal. “Let us hope that when it comes to the Legion—and King Stephan—that the Tamaell acts with . . . discretion.”

  Rising from his kneeling position, Aeren said, “Yes. Let’s hope.”

  It was not a hope he believed in.

  Two days later, Aeren and Eraeth were interrupted by the approach of one of the Tamaell’s pages. He halted a respectful distance away after catching their attention.

  Aeren felt his chest tighten. “It appears the Tamaell has finally made a decision,” he murmured, low enough so only Eraeth could hear.

  Eraeth grunted as Aeren motioned the page forward.

  “The Tamaell requests your presence,” the page said with a short but precise bow of his head and shoulders, then added, “immediately.”

  Aeren shared a look with Eraeth, and the bands around his chest tightened further. “Gather an escort, Protector. No more than four.”

  Aeren and his escort halted outside of the council tent less than an hour later as the sun began its descent to the west. There, black clouds could be seen, the tattered fringes scudding toward the encampment. On all sides of the Tamaell’s tents, men were hustling to break down and pack away supplies, their actions frantic, and Aeren heard word being spread that the army would head out again within the hour. Servants were cursing, members of the Phalanx as well as they stumbled over them in their own preparations.

  Aeren’s unease grew, but a moment later the page exited the council tent and said, “The Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive are waiting inside.”

  He found the Tamaell and the Tamaell Presumptive sitting on mounds of pillows surrounding a large rectangular board of polished wood, a map spread over its length, held down with small lead obelisks at the four corners. Numerous other lead figures were strewn out over the map, and as Aeren moved into the room at a gesture from the Tamaell, he realized that the map depicted the entire length and breadth of the plains. Hills and valleys were shown, including the Escarpment. Settlements were denoted with black markings, human, dwarren, and the few Alvritshai villages established on the plains. Water sources were marked in blue, the forests in green. The rest of the map—the grassland—was shaded in various golds and yellows and browns.

  The map was beautiful . . .

  Except for the large black masses of lead figures in three separate locations across the plains.

  With one quick glance, Aeren felt his heart shudder and closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly. He sent a small prayer to Aielan, then opened his eyes and met the Tamaell’s gaze.

  “I see you understand the situation,” the Tamaell said, his voice heavy.

  “Yes, Tamaell. I believe I do.”

  The Tamaell nodded and motioned for Aeren to take a seat beside him, opposite the Tamaell Presumptive. Eraeth settled in opposite the Tamaell.

  “King Stephan has left me no choice,” the Tamaell began. He pointed to the board as he spoke, moving from each massed group of figures to the other. “He’s gathered a large force of his Legion here, by our last accounting, and is headed toward the plains. I did not expect him to move, not when he is being pressed on the coast by the continued attacks of the Andovans in their attempt to reclaim their lost colonies. But those attacks are affecting Stephan’s army. He has not been able to gather as many of the Legion to him as he probably wanted, but he has certainly gathered more than enough to be a threat to us.”


  “More than we have here in the envoy,” Eraeth murmured.

  The Tamaell nodded, his expression grim. “Yes.” He turned his attention to the group that represented the dwarren, a frown creasing his forehead. “According to the scouts who have managed to get close to the dwarren gathering, there are more dwarren coming to the meeting than expected as well. Again, their force is larger than our own, around three thousand.”

  “Which means it’s a true Gathering,” Aeren said. “For that many dwarren to be gathered together at once, there must be at least three clans represented, if not more. This means that the dwarren are serious about seeking peace. They could never have gathered that many clans together otherwise.”

  “Unless they intend to simply overwhelm us,” the Tamaell Presumptive said.

  Aeren turned to him, noticed how young he appeared. But not vulnerable. The time spent with the Phalanx on the borders had given the Tamaell Presumptive an edge, a hardness that Aeren did not remember seeing in him before he’d left. “The dwarren have never been able to work together before this.”

  “Except at the Escarpment. And they were slaughtered there. Do you think that has been forgotten?” The Tamaell Presumptive shifted forward, his eyes narrowing. “I think it more likely that they remember, perhaps too well, and they—all of them—see a chance for reprisal.”

  Aeren thought back to Garius and their meeting in the dwarren clan chief ’s tent. He did not think Garius intended vengeance.

  However he could not say the same for Garius’ son, Shea.

  “The dwarren are not that devious,” he said instead. “They are not a subtle race.”

  The Tamaell replied. “No, they are not. But their intentions are irrelevant. I cannot ignore the presence of the Legion. Not this close, and not with those numbers.”

  Aeren bowed his head. “You’ve ordered the envoy to intercept the Legion.”

  “There is no other option.” Aeren couldn’t ignore the note of warning in the Tamaell’s voice.

  “And what of the dwarren? Will we simply leave them?”

  The Tamaell frowned, although Aeren couldn’t determine whether it was in annoyance or offense. “We will not ignore them either.” He shifted, reaching forward to retrieve a new set of lead figures from a flat, narrow box at the edge of the map table. “Unknown to any but Lords Khalaek, Jydell, and Waerren, I’ve had a force of two thousand mixed Alvritshai House Phalanx gathering on the edge of Alvritshai lands here,” he said, placing the figures on the map. “I’ve sent orders that they are to move immediately, in the hope that they can join with the envoy . . . here.” He pointed to a spot on the map and purposefully met Aeren’s gaze.

  Aeren froze, his body rigid, all the hope he’d held out for the meeting with the dwarren stilled. “The Escarpment.”

  The Tamaell drew back. “Yes.”

  In his mind’s eye, Aeren could see the movement of the armies, could see them gathering, amassing as they moved toward the break in the land called the Escarpment. For a moment, he thought he could feel the earth shuddering beneath him with the tread of their feet, thought he could hear the clank and rattle and groan as the wagons moved. He smelled the sweat of their bodies, tasted the blood that would be spilled.

  “All to come together there,” he whispered, barely aware he spoke the thought out loud. “There, on that grass, on that soil. Again.”

  The words held in the silence for a long moment, somehow potent, throbbing with intensity.

  But then the Tamaell leaned forward. “Not all,” he said. “You and the Tamaell Presumptive will go to meet with the dwarren as planned. To extend to them my apologies.”

  18

  “NO! LEAVE THE CURSED WAGON BEHIND!”

  Servants scrambled, the tents already nothing but lumps of canvas on the grass, rolled up haphazardly and chucked into a stack waiting to be packed. Everything else in the army was being packed and thrown onto wagons as well, but Aeren noticed a few troubled glances among his own servants. He rarely barked orders, or spoke impatiently. They knew something had happened. But all they’d heard was that the army was moving, and they didn’t understand why their lord had suddenly decided to split the Rhyssal escort, loading only essentials on the horses, leaving the wagon and everything he wouldn’t need for the next ten days with the army.

  “Remind me again why we aren’t taking the wagon to meet with the dwarren?” Eraeth murmured blandly, as if he were bored.

  Aeren frowned in irritation. “Because the Tamaell ordered me to escort the Tamaell Presumptive to the meeting with the dwarren, but he didn’t say it had to be at a leisurely pace. I intend to get there as fast as possible, let Thaedoren give the dwarren the Tamaell’s regrets,” Aeren couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice, “and then catch up to the Tamaell’s army as soon as possible. I’ll drive the horses into the ground if I have to.”

  “I see.”

  Aeren shot his Protector a glare, but Eraeth didn’t see it, his face set in a hard frown of concentration.

  “Have you informed the Tamaea of what you intend? She may be able to slow the Tamaell down and give you more time.”

  Aeren considered, then cursed himself. The Tamaell’s decision had riled him too much. He wasn’t thinking, only reacting.

  He sauntered to the edge of the main convoy, Eraeth following, then raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sunlight, pretending to scan the horizon. He focused on the head of the army, too distant to pick out individuals. But he could pick out the Tamaea’s banner and the small group of figures beneath it.

  “She’s already waiting for the army to depart. Any message I send would be seen,” he said.

  “What about Shaeveran? Send him.”

  Colin had returned from the forest and his meeting with the Faelehgre the night before with no additional news. The Faelehgre hadn’t seen any of the Wraiths since the expansion of their territory, and they still had no way to track them using the Wells.

  Aeren sighed. “She’s in the open. He’d be seen the moment he arrived.”

  But mention of Colin reminded him of someone else. “Send a message to Lotaern,” he said abruptly. “Tell him I need to speak to him. Now.”

  Eraeth didn’t wait to summon a page; he took off himself.

  Twenty minutes later, the Chosen of the Order stalked through the remains of the Rhyssal House encampment, escorted by three acolytes and Eraeth.

  “What’s so important that I must break away from the Order’s preparations to depart?” he growled as he came to a stop, his gaze raking the encampment. “This is not an opportune time for a friendly chat. The Tamaell—”

  “Has issued orders. I know. But it seems that I am not going to accompany the rest of the convoy on its journey.”

  That halted Lotaern’s rage in its tracks. “What do you mean?”

  Aeren motioned him forward and the two stepped away from their escorts, out toward the plains. Lotaern kept up the pretense of indignant anger. “What’s happened? I heard you had a private meeting with the Tamaell.”

  “I did. He intends to take the army to intercept the Legion. The threat they represent is too great to ignore.”

  “Where is he sending you?”

  “To meet with the dwarren. I’m to escort the Tamaell Presumptive so he may extend the Tamaell’s apologies for not attending.”

  “Which means all of your efforts to reach a peace agreement were for naught.”

  “Yes. But I’m hoping to keep the Tamaell from making the same mistake he made at the Escarpment thirty years ago.”

  “How?”

  “I intend to meet with the dwarren and then return to the army before it reaches the Legion.”

  Lotaern snorted, then glanced around at the encampment, noting the wagon and the frenzy of activity as the Phalanx and the servants argued over what supplies went where. “You won’t make it,” he finally said. “Even reducing your weight by half and forcing everyone to ride.”

  “I know. Which is wh
y I need help.”

  Lotaern’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “I’m the Chosen of the Order, not Aielan herself.”

  “I need you to warn the Tamaea. Tell her to slow the army down as much as she can.”

  Lotaern’s eyebrows rose. “An interesting ally.” Aeren could see him considering the Tamaea’s potential. “I’ll contact her and relay the message.”

  As soon as the Tamaell sounded the horn to depart, the large convoy lurching into staggered motion, Aeren turned to the Tamaell Presumptive standing beside him. He didn’t know Thaedoren well, but what Aeren had seen of him in the council tent had set him on his guard. He remembered him as a boisterous child, tearing around the halls of the Tamaell’s quarters or the streets and levels of the city. Then later, as an impetuous young man who defied his father whenever possible, sometimes publicly.

  The Alvritshai who stood beside him now, hands holding the reins of an impatient horse, was no boy. He held himself with the confidence of a lord, carried himself like one of the Phalanx. His eyes were steady and completely unreadable.

  Aeren saw much of the Tamaell in him and little of the Tamaea.

  He frowned. “I would prefer to depart as soon as possible and move swiftly.”

  Thaedoren’s gaze—centered on the convoy, the distance between Aeren’s party and the larger group growing—shifted toward Aeren, then back. A slight frown touched the corners of his eyes, his mouth. “Very well.”

  Aeren nodded to Eraeth, waiting to one side, and the Protector waved Aeren’s party into motion. All of the men—the twenty Phalanx from the Rhyssal House, Colin, a few servants, and the ten White Phalanx that formed Thaedoren’s personal guard—immediately began to mount.

  As Aeren moved to his own horse, brought forward by Eraeth, Thaedoren said, “You hope to return to the army before it reaches the Legion.”