But it would take care of the pain . . . for a price.
Moiran glared at him. “You can’t stop this. You can’t halt the fighting. One man—”
“You’re right,” he interrupted. “I can’t end the battle . . . but there’s one man who can. And I can convince him. But I can’t do it from here.”
Her glare intensified—
And then, in a low, curt, bitter tone, she said, “Men.”
She removed the cap.
The scent of the Lifeblood flooded the tent, a hundred times stronger than before, and Colin gasped, his entire body trembling now, the ache in his stomach almost as strong as the pain in his chest.
“Let me have it.”
Moiran handed the flask to him reluctantly. He held it reverentially before him, let its power wash over him, soothe him.
Then, with one quick gesture, he tipped it into his mouth, felt its coolness against his tongue, tasted its sweetness, its pureness—
And then he swallowed.
Nothing happened.
Aeren watched, tension bleeding down his arms, tightening across his shoulders, as Lotaern kept his arms raised.
And then the acolytes behind him began to move.
They fanned out, each group of four heading out from Lotaern’s position, radiating outward, like the rays of the sun. When they were fifty paces from the edge of the fighting, the groups of four broke apart, each acolyte facing the chaos of the lines. Each drew his cattan, nearly in unison, and Aeren realized that Lotaern was issuing orders. He could see the Chosen’s mouth moving, but the battle itself drowned out his words.
The acolytes held their cattans to the sky, then reversed them and drove their points into the ground with both hands on the hilts, kneeling as they did so, heads bowed.
“What are they doing?” Eraeth asked.
Aeren shook his head, lips pursed.
Lotaern was still speaking. Aeren strained, tried to make out what was being said, but it was Eraeth who answered his own question.
“He’s chanting.”
“What?”
Eraeth stilled, drew and held a breath, concentrating. “Part of the Scripts.”
“They’re all chanting,” Aeren said abruptly. “They’re all chanting the same thing.”
Aeren felt it on the air first. A cessation of the winds, a silence beneath the rumbling roar of the fighting still taking place on all sides. Then the air . . . thickened. It pressed in around him, made it harder to breathe.
But even as this began to register, the ground trembled. Tremors coursed up through Aeren’s boots, shuddered through his feet into his legs, low at first, increasing steadily, until they couldn’t be ignored. On all sides, those at the edges of the fighting halted, stepped back, glanced around in confusion—
And the earth in front of the kneeling acolytes suddenly exploded skyward. Mud boiled, spewing up chunks of sod, clumps of dirt and roots and trampled grass, seething upward in a huge arc, as if something were trying to emerge from the ground itself, trying to shove its way free. Aeren caught glimpses of what lay beneath the churning surface: a white glow, vibrant and intense, so pure it hurt his eyes. The earth continued to fountain for a breath, two—
Then it began to push outward, away from the acolytes who still knelt, still chanted, heads bent. It plowed forward, mud and dirt erupting like geysers, shooting ten feet into the air, like spume from the ocean as it struck the rocky shore. It surged forward like the swell of a wave, rumbling through Aeren’s legs and up into his chest, juddering in his teeth.
The human men who had broken through the Alvritshai lines were caught by surprise, too stunned and confused to move. The boiling earth knocked them off of their feet, buried most beneath heaps of dirt, their screams cut short. Before each of them vanished, Aeren saw a tongue of that brilliant whiteness beneath the ground lick out, touch the person an instant before he was engulfed, as if tasting them. Then the arcing wave of moving earth reached the first Alvritshai. It flung them to the ground, but didn’t bury them, leaving them behind, shaken, struggling to rise.
“It’s Aielan’s Light,” Eraeth said suddenly. “The whiteness beneath the earth—it’s Aielan’s Light.”
Aeren’s brow creased skeptically—
But those Alvritshai near them had already heard. They whispered it beneath their breath, muttered prayers, gestured in awe, the reaction spreading outward.
On the field, the raging earth hit the most crowded parts of the battle, and at the same moment the acolytes rose from where they knelt, jerked their cattans free from the earth and pointed them toward the sky, and roared, “For Aielan! For the Order! For the Flame!”
Everyone in Aeren’s vicinity gasped.
The acolytes’ blades were limned with white light.
They rushed into the earth’s wake, pausing to kill any of the human forces who hadn’t been buried, their motions quick, merciless, hitting throat or heart before sprinting onward, into the heart of the fighting.
But the fighting had lurched to a halt, both Alvritshai and human forces stunned, even as the disturbed earth bore down on them. Some shook the shock off and began to run, fleeing toward their own lines or simply fleeing before the earth and the white light beneath. Many of the Alvritshai heard the acolytes’ war cry. To either side, Aeren felt his own men rallying, saw hands tightening on hilts, eyes hardening from shock to anger.
Thrusting his own cattan into the air, he bellowed, “For Aielan! For Rhyssal!”
And then he charged toward the nearest group of the Legion, whose attention was fixed on the approaching ridge of earth. His leg burned with pain from the knife wound and being twisted in the death of his horse, but Aeren killed two of the Legionnaires before they began to react, a few bringing swords to bear, still others breaking away toward the west. Aeren felt the writhing earth bearing down on him, felt the Legion he fought growing desperate—
And then it struck.
He was lifted off the ground, thrown by the force of the earth. Dirt pummeled him from all sides, flung so high and with such force that he could taste it. He breathed it in, choked and coughed on it, felt something lick up along his leg, felt its cold touch, felt it burning against his skin, recognized it as Aielan’s Light, as the same fire he had passed through to earn his pendant in the Order. Visions of that moment, of descending into the heart of the mountain beneath Caercaern, of traversing the empty halls and corridors, of marveling at the massive pillars, the carved stonework, the delicate stone stairs, flashed through his mind. But this was merely a taste of what he’d endured when he’d reached the final chamber, deeper even than the halls, hidden within the rough hewn catacombs below the ancient city where the pool of white fire blazed. There, he had submerged himself in the fire, allowed it to consume him, allowed himself to be exposed completely to Aielan and her judgment—
Then he was falling. He struck the ground hard, tumbled onto his side, spitting grit from his mouth, scrubbing it from his face. Alvritshai were coughing and hacking on all sides, a few groaning, holding their arms or legs where they’d twisted them on landing. Aeren dragged himself to his feet, wincing at the renewed pain in his leg, fresh blood staining his breeches, but he stumbled toward where a young human boy lay half buried in the sod, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth.
He never saw Aeren coming. His eyes were wide, staring off into the distance, tears streaming down his face, as he murmured, “I shouldn’t have taken the coin from Codger. I shouldn’t have taken the cart.”
Aeren hesitated.
A blade sank into the boy’s chest and Aeren spun.
Eraeth withdrew his cattan and met Aeren’s accusing glare stoically. “The battle isn’t over.” He motioned toward the plains behind them.
The wave of earth and white light had diminished. As Aeren watched, it threw up a few fitful geysers, as if it were gasping a last breath, and then it rumbled into stillness.
He glanced back at Lotaern in time to see the Chosen, arms sti
ll lifted, stagger, then fall, body crumpling.
Turning back, he gazed beyond where the earth had finally settled . . . and saw the remains of the Legion reserve. Hundreds of men, on foot and in the saddle, waiting for the order to attack. To the side, from the Tamaell Presumptive’s position, Alvritshai and Legion were picking themselves up and dusting themselves off.
Including King Stephan.
The leader of the coastline Provinces spat to one side, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sword still clutched tight in his other hand . . . and then he gestured.
A lone runner raised a single flag and began waving it back and forth.
And the reserve unit began to move.
Colin stood on the ridge above the Alvritshai encampment overlooking the field of battle. The dwarren stood to one side, their lines withdrawn, disengaged, although they were riled. The Legion and Alvritshai forces were in disarray, no clear lines on either side, men and Alvritshai pulling themselves up from the ground, horns beginning to sound, everyone beginning to regroup even as the Legion reserves charged toward the battle.
He’d arrived in time to witness the wave of earth, had seen it toss the Alvritshai and the Legion aside like stones as it rippled across the plains, then dissipated. He’d felt the power the acolytes had called thrumming through his feet, had felt it tingling in his skin and vibrating through him, in counterpoint to the pure ecstasy of the Lifeblood throbbing in his veins. The pain from the knife wound in his chest had receded, had become nothing more than a minor nuisance, an occasional tug that made him wince if he twisted or turned too fast or too sharply. The exhaustion that lay underneath the pain had also vanished, replaced by euphoria. He breathed in the plains air, tasted it, savored it, felt the coppery taste of blood against his tongue from the death below. He touched the desperation, the sweat, and the terror of the men who fought there, soft as silk, and reveled in the sounds of the horns, the shouts, the thunder of running feet, each distinct and brittle in his ears. Each breath, each heartbeat, each movement pricked his skin, tickling in the hairs at the base of his neck and along his arms. He bathed in the sensation, knowing it would cost him in the end, in the darkness of the mark on his arm, in the claiming of his soul by the Well, but he didn’t care.
The price was small. Nearly infinitesimal.
With the battlefield wrapped around him, he focused, picked out the banners of the Tamaell Presumptive, the pennants of the King of the Provinces, and then he reached out—
And halted time.
Picking his way down from the slope, he crossed the stilled battlefield, slid past individuals fighting to the death, around groups no more organized than a brawl, past horses in mid- rear, men falling, hands outstretched to catch themselves, unaware that they were already dead. He wound through splashes of blood frozen in midair, ducked beneath swords in full swing. He made his way through it all.
Until he stood before a single individual, the man he’d come to speak to, the man he’d come to convince:
King Stephan.
He peered into the King’s face, into his gray-green eyes, locked on his opponent, expression fierce as he prepared to drive his sword through an Alvritshai’s heart. He could feel the man beneath, could feel the vibrant energy of his life, even though everything was still, motionless.
Then he caught sight of another man, the King’s commander, Tanner Dain. The Legion commander fought beside the King, was in the act of stepping back, an Alvritshai’s body falling away from his blade.
Colin hesitated, then drew the mantle of the Lifeblood’s power around himself, like a cloak. He positioned himself so that Tanner Dain would see him the moment time resumed, but close enough so he could touch Stephan.
Then he let his grasp on time fall away.
Stephan roared as his blade plunged into the Alvritshai’s chest, blood flying as he drew back, half turned—
Then halted as he caught sight of Colin, dressed in an Alvritshai shirt, open at the front to keep it from getting soaked in the blood seeping through the bandages across his chest. As a frown creased his brow, as recognition began to flare in Tanner Dain’s eyes and he began to lurch forward, Colin turned to the commander of the King’s guard and said, “I’ll return him in a moment.”
Then he reached out and snagged the King by the arm, gathering the Well’s power around himself and Stephan—
And Traveled.
23
“DON’T LET GO,” COLIN SAID.
The tenor of Colin’s voice brought Stephan to a halt, his instinctive response to pull away from the hand that held him in a viselike grip, even as the world around them shuddered, slowed, then halted. Colin watched Stephan’s face intently, saw the man lurch as he enveloped him with the Lifeblood. It was easier to pull Stephan back with the Lifeblood flowing so cleanly, so recently, through his body. There was no wrench as there had been with Moiran as they fled the occumaen, no anchor trying to hold him in place, as with Aeren and Thaedoren in the parley tent.
But the transition wasn’t completely smooth either. Stephan gasped, his eyes going wild, darting around, seeing the entire battle in mid-motion, a battle he’d been part of only a moment before, adrenaline racing through his blood.
His gaze fell on Tanner Dain, his commander already leaning forward, foot poised to take a step in Colin’s direction, expression caught in transition, hardening into rage.
He turned to Colin. His terror had died. He’d already begun collecting himself. “What have you done?”
“I’ve halted time.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s something you need to see.”
“And what if I don’t want to see it?”
Colin shrugged. “I can’t force you to go, can’t force you to watch. All you have to do is break contact with me, free yourself from my grip, and you’ll return.”
Stephan’s mouth twitched into a sneer. “What is it that you think I need to see?”
Colin looked into his eyes, into the derision he saw reflected there, and said, “Your father.”
The sneer faltered, a look of horror, of hope filling the void that it left. For a startling moment that felt like eternity, Stephan lay exposed, the mask of rage and hatred and despair that he’d worn for the past thirty years gone, torn away, the man beneath—the boy who’d been transformed on these fields, who’d been murdered by Khalaek and the Alvritshai just as his father had been—peering through, vulnerable and young.
But then the mask slammed back into place, rage twisting Stephan’s face. “My father is dead,” he growled, then tensed to break free.
“He’s dead, but you can still see him. You can see how he died. You can see what really happened, who really killed him.”
“I’ve already seen how he died. I was there! I saw it with my own eyes!” He began pulling away from Colin, struggling, although half-heartedly. Perhaps he’d grown weary from the fight. He made no move to shift his sword to his free hand, to threaten Colin with it when it was obvious Colin himself held no weapon.
“But you saw it at a distance,” Colin said. “You don’t know what really happened. You’ve lived the last thirty years not knowing the truth, told one thing and another, until not even those who were there know what they saw and what they’ve learned to see, what they came to see based on rumor, not on fact.” Colin’s voice had deepened as Stephan’s struggles increased, his teeth clamped together. But Stephan suddenly let out a harsh cry and stopped trying to shake his arm free.
They glared at each other, both breathing hard.
“I can show you what truly happened,” Colin said, voice hoarse. “I can show you who turned against your father first, who followed and who didn’t.”
Stephan still didn’t believe him. Colin could see it in his tortured expression, as he squeezed his eyes shut and bent his head, his shoulders.
He remained in that bowed position a long moment, mostly still, jaw clenched.
When he lifted his head, he’d calmed himself, although his
eyes shone with hatred. “How? I’ve been told a hundred stories, heard a thousand songs. How can you show me the truth?”
Something deep inside Colin relaxed. “I can take you there.”
He reached out with the Lifeblood, still pulsing through him, still strong, and then he pushed. Pushed against time. Not halting it, not slowing it. No. Those were simpler tasks. Instead—as he’d done so many times before on the outskirts of the forest, where his mother and father and the rest of the wagon train had stood and faced the Shadows—he pushed back, pushed through the barrier and against the force trying to shove him into his proper place in time’s flow.
Stephan sucked in a sharp breath as the figures around him began to move, edging backward, swords pulling out of punctured chests, unslicing throats, uncutting arms and legs. Colin saw the image of Stephan himself, howling in reverse, but before the real Stephan could turn and see himself Colin concentrated and shoved, the reversal picking up speed, until all motion was smeared, then blurred, and yet still he pushed harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and Stephan took an unconscious step closer to him as time slid back even faster. The armies retreated, the sun set in the east, rose in the west, the field suddenly enveloped again in warfare, until they retreated again, the parley tent popping up from its collapse. Colin saw his body being carried in Eraeth’s arms as the Protector raced backward into the tent, caught a glimpse of Eraeth’s stricken face a moment before he vanished back inside. He staggered, surprised by that glimpse—
And in that moment, as the reversal of time lurched and slowed, he saw how the Wraith—how Walter—had gotten into the tent without being seen.
Khalaek’s men had held the tent flaps aside.
In a flash, he recalled seeing Khalaek’s aide standing beside the inside flap. A second had stood outside, guarding the tent with the others.
It would only have taken a simple signal—a whistle, a hummed refrain. Both men could lift the flap at the same moment, keep it open only a moment. With time slowed, or halted, Walter wouldn’t even need a single breath to slip inside, wouldn’t have even needed to appear at all with the tent flaps already pushed aside—
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