Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  His gaze locked on Aeren and held this time, still unreadable.

  “Yes.”

  “My father said you would not be happy with our decision.”

  Aeren let the anger he held inside flare for a moment. “I worked hard to arrange this meeting with the dwarren,” he said. He pushed off from the ground and slid into the saddle, controlling the horse with a few sharp tugs on the reins. “If there’s any chance at all to salvage something from it, I will.”

  He turned his horse away, toward Eraeth, not giving Thaedoren a chance to respond. “Let’s move.”

  Nine days later, the small party crested a rise in the plains, the depression where Aeren had first met with Garius below.

  It was empty, the ground bare.

  Aeren felt his heart shudder, even though he’d known the dwarren would not have arrived yet and would not have camped at the prescribed meeting place itself if they had. They’d ridden hard, as fast as Aeren could push the horses without compromising them, and managed to arrive a few days early. Thaedoren had said nothing, hadn’t hindered Aeren in any way, giving command of the party over to him without question, although he kept himself close, his influence felt at all times.

  Now, the Tamaell Presumptive said, “Look,” and pointed toward the south.

  There, on the horizon, a bank of dust angled away to the east, blown by the wind. Aeren squinted into the distance. “How far away are they?”

  “Two days at the most,” Thaedoren said, without hesitation. He turned and barked orders to make camp, motioning to a place near where Aeren and the others had camped the first time they’d come here, close to the spring. When he turned back, he said, with the granite voice of the Tamaell, “We’ll wait for them here, as they expect.”

  As the young Presumptive nudged his horse around and headed down off the rise, Aeren watched his receding back intently. Eraeth passed Thaedoren on his way toward Aeren on foot, the two exchanging a brief, formal nod.

  Aeren dismounted as Eraeth arrived and handed over the reins of his horse.

  “You aren’t happy,” his Protector said in greeting.

  Aeren snorted. “I’m not. The Tamaell Presumptive has ordered us to wait for the dwarren to arrive.”

  “We did arrive early. And the dwarren are close.”

  When Aeren didn’t answer, Eraeth stepped up to his side, staring down at Thaedoren as he merged with the rest of the Phalanx and servants setting up the camp. As they watched, he ordered a group of servants to dismantle what they’d erected of a tent and begin setting it up in a different location, closer to the spring.

  “What do you think of him?” Aeren asked. “Now that he’s returned. Now that we’ve traveled a small distance with him.”

  Eraeth scowled. “He’s easy to anger. And he doesn’t listen well.”

  “What Tamaell hasn’t been easy to anger?” Aeren countered with a small smile. “He’ll learn to listen. I think, in the end, he will be stronger than his father.”

  “He already has the respect of the Phalanx. The Tamaell sending him to the border was a bold move.”

  “We both know the Tamaell didn’t send him to the border to gain the Phalanx’s respect.”

  Eraeth tactfully didn’t respond, a frown darkening his face, one hand rubbing the nose of Aeren’s mount when it nudged him from the side. “Will he be wiser than the Tamaell?”

  Aeren stirred and glanced toward his Protector, eyebrow raised. “He asked intelligent questions about my preparations for this meeting, about what I thought we can expect. But we’ll find out when we meet with the dwarren.”

  “I think,” the Tamaell Presumptive said, hesitating before turning to Aeren, tightening his hold on the reins of his mount, “I think the dwarren meant it when they requested this meeting.”

  Aeren tried not to react to the look of surprise in the Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes. “They meant it. Do you think I would have asked the Tamaell to come here otherwise?”

  Thaedoren didn’t respond, but his expression clearly said he thought Aeren had brought the Tamaell and the Evant out here for nothing. But he’d spent the last thirty years on the border, dealing with dwarren raids. As he turned away, steadying his horse, Aeren could see him reevaluating the situation, his gaze flickering over the meeting tent in the flat below and the dwarren that had amassed beyond.

  Aeren shared a look with Eraeth on his other side, then turned back to face the dwarren. He didn’t know what Thaedoren had expected or what he’d intended to do, but the confusion on the young lord’s face gave him hope.

  The dwarren had assembled on the far side of the flat as before, the blue-green cloth of the meeting tent ruffling in a slight wind. Banners had been set into the ground on the dwarren’s side, the long triangular pennants rippling, showing the symbols of the dwarren clans, one banner for each. Aeren presumed that the dwarren gathered behind each banner represented that particular clan. One of the banners stood higher than the others, in the center—Harticur’s banner, the head of all of the clans, called the Cochen. He could see the clan chiefs and their escorts gathered at the front of each group, all on gaezels, waiting. Harticur sat with four Riders, each of the other chiefs with two. The sun blazed down, glinting on dwarren armor and armbands, although it couldn’t warm the winter-chilled air.

  In the far distance, one of the plains storms rolled southward. Aeren could hear the distant thunder.

  “What are they waiting for?” Thaedoren asked. He fidgeted in his seat, jerking the reins yet again.

  Aeren drew breath to answer, but one of the dwarren suddenly stepped from between the gathered ranks and marched out into the flat, carrying a feathered and beaded spear. “That,” Aeren said.

  “Who is it?”

  “One of their shaman. He’ll bring everyone to the tents, including us, once he feels it is safe.”

  Thaedoren’s brow creased in irritation, jaw tightening, but he said nothing and simply watched.

  The shaman circled the meeting tent once, and then again. He stopped at each of the four entrances, chanted and gestured with his spear, then flung something into the wind with a strangely familiar gesture, one that Aeren didn’t recognize until Eraeth grunted and said in surprise, “He’s sowing seeds.”

  After a lengthy pause, the shaman staring out at the passing storm to the east, he nodded as if satisfied, even though his ancient face was set into a black frown. In a strangely informal motion, he gestured for the clan chiefs to approach.

  The gaezels leaped forward, Harticur in the lead, the other clan chiefs falling in behind, a huge cry rising from the rest of the dwarren as they sped past the banners, circling around the tent as the cries from the dwarren increased. The shaman watched in silence, although Aeren would have sworn he saw the old man roll his eyes in disgust, and then Harticur and the rest brought their gaezels to a halt in a small group before him, dismounting as the dwarren shouts trailed off.

  Harticur approached the shaman, the other clan chiefs and Riders hanging back. Aeren picked out Garius, noticed that one of his Riders was his son, Shea. He didn’t recognize any of the other clan chiefs, but he’d never met with any of them personally. Garius ruled the lands closest to the Alvritshai and human borders; he was the only dwarren Aeren had ever dealt with. He’d only heard of Harticur.

  Harticur bowed his head, and the shaman placed one hand on it in a strangely formal and somehow powerful gesture. Aeren could feel it. He couldn’t tell if any words were spoken, but Harticur looked up when the shaman removed his hand, and the shaman nodded.

  Harticur stalked forward, the others following, and entered the tents, their pace subdued compared to the dramatic ride around the tents. They left their gaezels on the flat, a few of the Riders staying behind to watch over them.

  When all the dwarren had entered the meeting tent behind Harticur, the shaman turned toward the Alvritshai gathered on the rise and motioned them forward.

  Thaedoren’s shoulders tensed, and his horse sidestepped, picking up
on his unease. Aeren felt his own stomach clench in apprehension.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Thaedoren said, and nudged his horse forward.

  “Not the best attitude,” Eraeth muttered, low enough only Aeren could hear, as he and Aeren started forward on their own mounts. The rest of the Alvritshai escort followed suit.

  The Alvritshai didn’t circle the tent with their horses. Instead, they approached the shaman without a sound except the jangle of harness, the creak of leather, and the snorting of the animals. Thaedoren halted twenty paces from the shaman, and even though, mounted, the Alvritshai loomed over the much smaller dwarren, he stared up at them without a trace of fear. Thaedoren met the shaman’s eyes with a challenge, his posture edged in contempt, but when the shaman merely straightened, his expression hardening, Thaedoren relaxed and nodded with a hint of respect.

  “Well met,” the Tamaell Presumptive said formally in dwarren. “I am Thaedoren Ormae Resue, Tamaell Presumptive of the Alvritshai. I have come to speak to the Gathering, on behalf of my father, the Tamaell Fedorem Arl Resue.”

  The shaman registered brief surprise at his use of dwarren, but he recovered quickly, eyes narrowing as if he thought Thaedoren had offered some sort of verbal challenge with the gesture. “Harticur, Chief of the Red Sea Clan and Cochen of this Gathering, welcomes you.” Then, in the silence that followed, the shaman gave all those in the group a hard look, met each with his own eyes and held the gaze, passing swiftly from person to person.

  When his gaze fell on Aeren, the lord felt something deep inside him shiver, for the shaman’s eyes were depthless and cold and powerful. He found he couldn’t look away, and he drew in a sharp breath and held it. For a moment, the shaman’s expression seemed strained, the wrinkles around his eyes tightening—

  And then he let Aeren go, turning to look at Eraeth, before finally returning to Thaedoren. Aeren gasped, uncertain exactly what had happened. He wasn’t given time to think about it.

  “Harticur waits for you inside the meeting hall,” the shaman said gruffly. “Enter.”

  He motioned abruptly with the spear, as if he’d asked them to enter ages ago and didn’t understand why they hadn’t moved yet. Thaedoren dismounted, although Aeren saw him hesitate, as if he’d taken offense and had considered ending the meeting right there. As soon as he started moving, Aeren followed suit.

  They left the horses with two Phalanx and entered the shade of the tent, the wind ruffling the edges of the entrance. Aeren could smell the dampness of the distant storm in the gust, bitter with cold, tasting like metal.

  Then he ducked through the interior entrance behind Thaedoren, stepping into the meeting room. The seven dwarren clan chiefs and their escorts—two dwarren each—were already seated on the pillows around the large table. The hint of the winter storm was subsumed by the sweet incense of the dwarren lanterns, the interior already cloudy with drifting smoke. The room was warm but not yet stifling. Thaedoren had halted just inside the entrance, but before Aeren could adjust his breathing enough to speak, the Tamaell Presumptive moved stiffly forward and sat on the empty cushions near the entrance.

  Aeren settled to Thaedoren’s right, Eraeth beside him. As he shifted to find a comfortable position, Aeren noted that the table would have seated many more, but the dwarren had spread everyone out evenly, a large space between each of the dwarren and their escorts, a larger separation between the dwarren and the Alvritshai. He also noted that the dwarren had unsheathed their swords—no longer than Alvritshai daggers—and set the naked blades before them on the table, the metal catching the occasional flicker of the lantern light.

  Beside him, Thaedoren frowned at the swords. His gaze swept through the rest of the dwarren, most sitting with their backs rigid, arms crossed over their chests, watching the three Alvritshai with stern expressions.

  Then, slowly, keeping his eyes on Harticur, seated directly across from him, he drew his own cattan, the blade coming free silently, and held it out before him.

  The dwarren tensed. Aeren felt sweat break out in the palms of his hands, felt it begin to trickle down his back. Eraeth eased his own hand toward his blade.

  Thaedoren twisted his wrist, so that the lantern light gleamed along his sword’s length . . . and then he set the blade down before him, mimicking what the dwarren had done.

  “Do as I did,” Thaedoren said softly, never taking his eyes off Harticur’s scarred, angular face. The Cochen had obviously seen many battles, his nose broken at least twice.

  Eraeth frowned, but when Aeren removed his blade—slowly, as Thaedoren had done—Eraeth did so as well, his reluctance clear. He shot the dwarren a warning glance as he withdrew his hand.

  When all three Alvritshai blades rested on the table, Harticur inclined his head.

  “Where,” he said in a rough, thickly accented but understandable Alvritshai, “is the Tamaell?”

  Aeren closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed to Aielan.

  Thaedoren straightened where he sat, drew in a deep breath, and began formally, “I have been sent—”

  Harticur’s hand slammed down onto the thick wood of the table, making all of the swords rattle, the sound like a crack of thunder in the confines of the tent. A few of the dwarren escort flinched, but none of the chiefs moved a muscle.

  “Where is the Tamaell?” Harticur repeated into the silence, his voice rising, losing some of its fluency as his anger grew. “Where are the Alvritshai? The Lords of the Evant, the White Phalanx, the wagons and horses that have desecrated our Lands? Where is the Tamaell!”

  Thaedoren pulled back slightly from the tirade and regarded Harticur’s flushed face, his brow knit into a tight frown, his lips pulled thin. When it became clear that Harticur had finished, he shifted forward, and Aeren’s shoulders tensed.

  “I have been sent,” Thaedoren began again, speaking slowly, his words biting, laced with anger, “by my father, the Tamaell, to extend to you his regrets. His intention was to meet with you here, to speak to you about the possibility of reconciliation. On the way here, a situation on the border with the human Provinces forced him to halt and reassess. He could not ignore the threat the Legion presents, so he has gone to meet it.

  “He has sent me here to talk to you of reconciliation in his stead.”

  Eraeth shot a glance at Aeren, but Aeren didn’t move; he kept his gaze locked on the table before him, on the glints of light on his own blade. He could feel the stress in the room, heavy and thick, like the lowering of clouds before a storm, as one of the other dwarren translated everything Thaedoren had said for the clan chiefs who did not speak Alvritshai. When the translator fell silent, the air trembled, stretched. The Tamaell had told him Thaedoren was here to voice his regrets. Aeren had not known that the Tamaell Presumptive intended to initiate the talks. He wondered briefly if that had been the Tamaell’s plan all along.

  And then, imperceptibly, Harticur relaxed. The dwarren clan chiefs’ arms uncrossed as they leaned to whisper to each other. They spoke too low for Aeren to hear—he caught only a word or phrase here and there, all in dwarren. No one spoke to Harticur.

  The Cochen broke his locked gaze with Thaedoren and turned to Aeren.

  “Is this true?”

  Aeren stiffened. Garius must have informed Harticur that he was the one who had initiated the contact, although he didn’t risk turning to Garius for confirmation. “Yes. A force of Legion gathered near the border days after the Tamaell and the rest of the Evant departed from Caercaern. The Tamaell halted nine day’s hard ride north of here to assess the situation.”

  “Did you feel the threat was significant enough to draw the Tamaell away?” Garius asked.

  Aeren considered, recalling the map in the Tamaell’s council tent. “The threat is significant. We estimated there were five thousand Legion on the border.”

  New conversations broke out among the dwarren as soon as the translator finished, louder than before, and more ominous. Eraeth shifted uncomfortably in his seat at
the dwarren’s tone, although Aeren was relieved to see he did not reach for his cattan, even though his hand twitched in that direction as two of the dwarren began arguing heatedly, one standing, fist raised as he punctuated his words. The other spat a response, both glaring at each other—

  And then Harticur said a single word in dwarren, one Aeren knew. “Silence.”

  All the clan chiefs fell silent, although neither of the two arguing turned from the other. The tension in the air increased as their expressions darkened, the hand of the one standing clenching and unclenching . . .

  But with a sudden snort of disgust, he turned and sat.

  None of the dwarren had reached for their blades, had even looked in their direction, and yet Aeren felt sweat running down his arms, felt his shirt sticking to his neck. With effort, he forced his hands, hidden in his lap beneath the table, to unclench.

  Leaning forward, his brows drawn close together, Harticur motioned to one of his aides with a sharp word. As the dwarren slapped a roll of thin leather out on the table before them and snapped it open, Harticur said, “Show us where.”

  Thaedoren leaned forward, face carefully blank, to look at the map, along with Aeren. It had been worked into the leather itself, giving the mountains to the north sharp texture, the plains a wide open region with small impressions of tufts of grass, the forests stained a dark green. A few circles with dwarren symbols pocked the plains in what appeared to be random locations.

  Aeren tensed, eyes widening, as he realized what the circles represented: the entrances to the dwarren underground cities, their warrens. The dwarren had, for the most part, kept them hidden for the last two hundred years.

  He also noticed something else, something that sent a shiver of shock through his arms. The plains themselves were interrupted by four straight lines. The westernmost line he recognized as the location of the underground river, which emerged as a huge waterfall at the Escarpment at the human city named Tappinger’s Falls. The Alvritshai hadn’t ranged far enough south or east to find the others.