Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  Finally, the mood in the tent now black and apprehensive, Peloroun said, “If what you say is true—and from what my caitan tells me, it is—then what do you propose we do?”

  He already knew what Aeren was going to say, Aeren could hear it in his voice, but he answered anyway. “Withdraw.”

  For the first time since the meeting had started, Peloroun surged to his feet, his face contorted with rage, with indignation, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, barely restraining himself from crossing the short distance separating them. “You expect us to retreat after the bastards killed the Tamaell?” he spat through clenched teeth.

  Aeren opened his mouth to respond, but Thaedoren was the one who answered, his low voice filling the room, cutting everyone’s protests short.

  “The humans didn’t kill my father,” he said. “Lord Khalaek did.”

  Aeren counted three breaths before the shocked silence broke into a tumultuous uproar. The only Alvritshai in the room who didn’t react were Aeren, Eraeth, Lotaern, Thaedoren, and the Phalanx behind Aeren and the Tamaell Presumptive. After a closer look, Aeren realized that all of the White Phalanx with Thaedoren had been in the parley tent, had seen the Tamaell die. Each of them had tensed at the Tamaell Presumptive’s words, their stance rigid.

  The group didn’t quiet until Lord Barak announced loudly, “I heard that a human killed him, that it was an assassin.”

  “It was, but Lord Khalaek is the one who hired that assassin,” Thaedoren said.

  “How do you know this?” Lord Peloroun barked.

  “I learned of Khalaek’s plans from Lord Aeren.”

  “Ha! The Duvoraen and the Rhyssal have always been rival Houses! That proves nothing.”

  Thaedoren’s gaze fell on Peloroun, narrowed slightly. “I thought so as well, Lord Peloroun. And it’s true that Aeren and Khalaek despise each other. It was for that reason that I ignored Lord Aeren’s warning. And now,” he said, standing slowly, so that he was on the same level as Lord Peloroun, taking a step forward so he stood directly before him, “my father is dead. But it wasn’t Lord Aeren who convinced me Khalaek was involved, it was Khalaek himself. I heard him speak to the assassin, I heard him order my death.”

  The lords glanced toward each other, uncertain.

  “Where is Lord Khalaek now?” Peloroun asked. “We should ask him what he thinks of these . . . allegations.”

  “These truths,” Thaedoren spat.

  “So you say.”

  “You would doubt the Tamaell Presumptive? Over a question regarding his father’s death?”

  Everyone turned toward the new voice, toward Lotaern. The Chosen of the Order had said nothing since the Lords of the Evant had arrived, had weathered the few searching looks he’d received. Most of the lords had shrugged his presence aside, effectively ignoring it, assuming that Lotaern was here at the Tamaell Presumptive’s request.

  Now, they regarded him with mixed curiosity, confusion, and subdued dissension.

  Speaking carefully, Peloroun said, “I would question the word of one of Khalaek’s greatest rivals.”

  “And yet, moments ago, you called Lord Aeren a ‘weak lordling’ and nothing but a diplomat.”

  Peloroun sneered. “Oldest rivals, then.” He turned back to Thaedoren. “I would still like to speak with Khalaek.”

  Thaedoren turned away, moving back to his original position, although he did not sit down. “Khalaek will be dealt with,” he said.

  Everyone in the room heard death in the soft words.

  “By the Evant,” Lord Barak interjected, a warning note in his voice. “He will be dealt with by the Evant, after this . . . altercation with the Legion and dwarren is resolved.”

  Thaedoren stilled, but he said nothing.

  “As for this altercation,” Lotaern said, as if the matter of Khalaek had already been agreed upon, “I believe that Lord Aeren has left out one important factor. Two actually.”

  Peloroun’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “And what would those be, Chosen.”

  “The first is another reason that the Legion poses a serious threat. They have more men, yes, and their supplies were not affected by the occumaen as ours were . . . but those by themselves would not be enough to sway me into the belief that we cannot win without something else.”

  Impatient, Lord Waerren said, “Which is?”

  “The reason King Stephan and the Legion are here, the reason they came to the plains in the first place: the death of his father and their King, Maarten.” He paused to let the words sink in, then added, “Stephan isn’t here to keep the Alvritshai and dwarren from forming an alliance. That’s a pretext. They have their own problems with the Andovans attacking their coastline. And yet, with no provocation, King Stephan came out here to the plains. He—and all of his men—are here for revenge. That is why they will be next to impossible to defeat. They came to fight because they have something to fight for.”

  The lords sat back, exchanging troubled glances. Aeren closed his eyes and bowed his head, images of the previous battle at the Escarpment running through his mind. When he finally glanced back up, he saw similar pained expressions on most of the lords in the room, some tinged with guilt.

  But that was the past. Nothing could change it.

  Aeren turned to Lotaern, brow creased. “You said there were two factors I neglected to mention. What’s the second?”

  Lotaern smiled . . . and yet Aeren felt himself shiver. “The second you could not have known about. You forgot to factor in the men I brought with me, the acolytes, the Order of the Flame.”

  Peloroun snorted. “And what good will acolytes do us?”

  “They’re more than mere acolytes,” Lotaern said, voice laden with a satisfaction. “They are warriors of Aielan.”

  “You led us here, Cochen. We should fight! My Riders are willing, even if others are not.”

  Sipa, clan chief of Silver Grass, sneered in Garius’ direction as the other clan chiefs grunted in agreement. Garius tried not to react, even though the yetope smoke in the meeting tent was thick and heady. Shea bristled beside him at the insult, made to stand, but Garius held him back. His son’s scathing look shifted to him.

  “The Thousand Spring Riders are ready to fight,” Shea growled.

  “We did not come here to fight,” Garius rumbled. He turned his attention to Harticur, the Cochen, who was the only clan chief standing, and repeated, more harshly, “We did not come here to fight the humans or the Alvritshai.”

  “We did not intend to come here, to the Cut, at all!” Harticur retorted. His face was flushed from the heat of the tent and the fight to hold the dwarren line after the brutal death of the Alvritshai Tamaell. “But we are here now. We should seize the opportunity. The humans are not interested in us. It was clear on the battlefield. They lust for Alvritshai blood.”

  “Let the Alvritshai wear them down,” Sipa said, and most of the other clan chiefs nodded and stroked their beards. “Then strike when they are weakened.”

  “We came here to speak to the Tamaell,” Garius countered.

  “And the Tamaell is dead! Murdered by the humans in front of our eyes! The humans cannot be trusted.”

  A thread of doubt slid through Garius. Sipa was correct. The Tamaell had been killed by a human, although how it was done he had no idea. Even there, in the parley tent, the conflict had centered on the Alvritshai and the humans. Harticur, Garius, and the rest of the dwarren had been forgotten, were able to escape the tent and retreat to their Riders unmolested. Harticur had fought only to keep the human and Alvritshai conflict from overrunning the dwarren, nothing more.

  But now, Sipa’s words were causing the Cochen to reconsider. He could see it in Harticur’s eyes as he stared down at the brazier taking up the center of the tent, mimicking the central fire pit of the keeva in each of their warrens. His hands were resting on his knees where he sat cross- legged before the burning coals.

  No one spoke for a long moment, everyone inhaling the smoke and
contemplating the humans’ treachery and the Tamaell’s death. And then:

  “The death was not natural.”

  All of the clan chiefs turned toward the gravelly, wizened voice of Harticur’s shaman, Corteq. Wreathed in tendrils of smoke, his hard eyes latched onto each of the clan chiefs for a moment as he scanned the room before returning to the Cochen.

  “The gods are troubled. The death was not natural, the events cloudy and obscured. Much turmoil there, much that I do not understand.” He waved his hand through the smoke, appearing to be staring at the patterns it made before him.

  “What do you see?” Harticur asked.

  “The world is Turning, and the Four Winds have begun to blow. Nothing is clear.” Corteq stared at the tendrils a moment longer, his eyes slightly dilated, then grunted and leaned back. “Tread carefully, Cochen. Your choice will determine the fate of the People of the Lands.”

  Harticur frowned, the rest of the clan chiefs stirring uneasily.

  “We should attack the humans. It is a chance to avenge our unsettled ancenstors’ spirits,” Sipa said, and Garius saw at least three of the dwarren nodding in agreement, including Shea.

  Harticur’s brow furrowed, and he looked up at Garius.

  Garius thought for a long moment. This was his last chance to convince Harticur, the last chance to sway him toward peace. “We are at the Cut. If you attack and the humans rally, if the Alvritshai join them . . .”

  Tension tightened the corners of Harticur’s mouth and he nodded.

  “Do you think they will make a difference?” Eraeth asked, nodding toward the ranks of the Order of the Flame behind them.

  Aeren shifted in his saddle, turning from his perusal of the churned plains to look back, squinting into the light of the rising sun. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Lotaern wasn’t forthcoming about what they could do. But he claims that they are more than simple warriors.”

  The acolytes had formed up into lines, four deep. Dressed in armor similar to what most of the House Phalanx wore, they could have blended into any of the surrounding Houses and been indistinguishable from the rest of the Alvritshai . . . except for their white tabards. Those tabards blazed in the morning sunlight, the stylized flames on their front picked out in gold. He recalled seeing these acolytes emerging from the Sanctuary in Caercaern, felt the same sickening twist of dread in his stomach as he had then.

  “The Order was never meant to have a Phalanx,” he murmured, even as Lotaern rode to the front of his acolytes on his white horse, a standard-bearer with the blue and white flame emblem on his banner a step behind.

  “It appears he has one now,” Eraeth said.

  Aeren glanced toward his Protector. “We’ll see for how long.”

  Eraeth merely grunted.

  During the meeting of the Evant the night before, Aeren had seen the deepening lines of concern on the Tamaell Presumptive’s face as they planned, as Lotaern revealed more and more about his warriors, his Order of the Flame.

  But the Order and its army could wait. He turned his attention back to the ranks of the Alvritshai and the field.

  The Houses of the Evant were set up the same as the day before, spread out in a wide v-shape, Thaedoren and House Resue at its point, where it would intersect both the dwarren and human forces. The Duvoraen Phalanx had been kept back as a reserve at Lord Barak’s and Vaersoom’s insistence; they were even more concerned over their loyalties after the allegations of Khalaek’s involvement in the Tamaell’s death, though they had fought well. In fact, they demanded that the caitan be relieved of command and the force given over to one of the Lords of the Evant instead. Peloroun opposed the action, supported by Aeren, much to the Lord of House Ionaen’s surprise. After much argument, Thaedoren settled the matter by pointing out that the Duvoraen had already proven themselves as reserve units and that Khalaek’s men had proved they would follow the caitan of House Duvoraen’s commands.

  Everyone else had claimed the same positions along the line and now stood waiting as the sky lightened, the sun finally emerging completely above the horizon behind them. Aeren fidgeted in his saddle, unable to find a position that didn’t aggravate the aches and bruises from yesterday’s battle. The parley tent had collapsed and been ground into the earth, one stake with a fold of cloth still attached jutting upward toward the sky. He stared at it a long moment, a different ache building in his chest. To either side, he could see the dwarren and human lines, too distant to discern faces but close enough to see movement among the men. Banners flapped in a gusting wind. Horses stamped and huffed, jangling their bridles.

  He glanced at his own men and met Dharel’s eyes, Auvant’s, a few others. Dharel gave him a short nod, his expression tense, set and ready. All of House Rhyssal was ready. The breeze smelled of anticipation, of sweat and fear, of grass.

  Drums sounded, and Aeren spun to see Harticur and a string of Riders sweeping down the length of the dwarren line. To the north, runners scattered from King Stephan’s escort, set a hundred paces in front of his own army. The throbbing pulse of the drums escalated, and the dwarren broke into a roar. The runners for the human army halted, unfurled their flags—red and black, cut diagonally across the rectangular field—and all along the line men voiced a battle cry.

  And through it all, the Alvritshai horns sounded.

  “So it begins,” Aeren said, so softly only Eraeth could hear. “Again.”

  All three lines began to advance, the dwarren on their gaezels streaking forward, their drums a frenzy of sound now, pounding as the thunder of the gaezels’ hooves grew. The Alvritshai and humans advance more slowly, but as the lines drew closer together, the pace increased. The humans broke from their march to a trot. Their front line grew ragged as a few men surged forward, ahead of the rest.

  “Steady!” Eraeth bellowed. “Hold!”

  Aeren heard Thaedoren barking the same orders to his left, yet he found himself nudging his horse forward a little more, a little faster. He could feel the tension boiling in his blood, could feel it building.

  On the field, the dwarren’s far edge swung inward, its center slowing. It struck the end of the human line—

  And as if that contact had been a command, the rest of the humans surged forward. No longer contained, no longer making an attempt at control, they simply charged.

  The two armies—dwarren and human—converged, crushing into each other, the connection speeding toward him. Sound filled Aeren’s head, a roaring of wind, a crash of thunder, and without thought he released his horse, released the sound inside his mind in a bellow. The lines folded in upon each other, closer and closer, until they struck the point of the vee, until there was nothing in Aeren’s field of vision except the human army, rushing toward him, eating up the churned mud and grass as they sprinted forward—

  And then they struck, Alvritshai and human lines merging into one, and Aeren felt nothing but the wind and the clash of his cattan.

  Moiran glanced up from where she knelt in her tent, needle poised, as the first of the Alvritshai horns cried out.

  A shudder ran through her. She held still for a long moment, listening to the pealing notes, so calm and clear at first, then breaking, becoming more scattered, somehow more desperate, as the armies met. She imagined she could feel the earth trembling beneath her from the tread of thousands of feet. Or perhaps it trembled at the senselessness of it all, a shudder at the spill of blood, at the death.

  Her heart quickened, its beat hard for a moment as she thought of Fedorem, of his body lying nearby, in another room. But she seized the threatening emotion, grasped it tight even as the tears began to burn at the corners of her eyes. She’d allowed herself to cry the night before, after tending the Lords of the Evant before their meeting and seeing to the needs of the wounded. She’d cried until her ribs ached, until she felt hollow and empty, until she thought there were no more tears, and then she’d cried more. All in solitude, in the confines of her tent, the White Phalanx Thaedoren had set to guard
her dismissed. They hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d had to shout at them, nearly breaking at that point, her hands knotted in her dress. She thought it was her hands that had convinced them. Or perhaps it had been the pain in her voice.

  She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, so deep she hadn’t dreamed. But she’d woken early, dawn still an hour away.

  Now the horns scattered even farther, no longer announcing orders to the entire army, focusing on their own Houses. She let her gaze drop to the pile of clothes she had begun to mend, to the shirt she held in her lap.

  One of Fedorem’s shirts.

  A hot liquid sensation filled her chest, and she let the hand with the needle drop to her lap, leaning her head forward, the pressure building in the back of her throat.

  She’d almost given in to it when someone moaned.

  Her head snapped up, breath caught, the grief lodging with a sharp pain in her chest. For a moment, hope flared as she thought the sound had come from Fedorem—even though she’d seen Fedorem’s body, had seen the gaping wound across his throat, knew that Fedorem lay too far away for her to hear him even if he weren’t already dead—

  And then she realized it was the human. Colin. Shaeveran.

  She tossed the shirt aside and lurched to her feet, moving to the human’s side.

  She hovered uncertainly above him as his head rolled from one side to the other, his features etched in pain. When his eyelids began to flutter though, she knelt, reached for the wet rag sitting on a table nearby, next to a shallow basin and a stack of clean bandages. She dabbed at his sweaty forehead with the cool cloth.

  His eyes flared open, the pupils dilating. He focused on her, one hand shooting upward to grab her wrist, his grip tight.

  Then he lurched upright—

  Except he didn’t make it. He tried, but a spasm of pain tore across his face and he gasped, collapsing back onto the pallet. His entire face went a grayish-white, and fresh sweat broke out on his skin, his hair already matted to his forehead.