“And where is he now?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think he’d head back to the Well, back to the forest. The Faelehgre will know. I’ll find out from them as soon as I can. He was wounded as badly as I was.”
“Worse. Khalaek stabbed him as well in order to escape.”
Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He hadn’t seen what transpired between the two. “What’s happened to Khalaek?”
Aeren looked away, troubled and angry. He stood, began pacing. “The Evant has declared him a traitor. If it had been anyone but a lord of the Evant, anyone but him, he would have been executed immediately. But he is a lord, and as one of the conditions of the treaty, Stephan has required that we hand him over to the Provinces for justice. So the Evant has decided to exile Khalaek from the Evant, from all of Alvritshai lands, forever. He’ll be banished after the treaty has been completed and then immediately given over to Stephan.”
“When will that happen?”
“Tomorrow . . . or perhaps the day after, depending on when the final minor details of the treaty are agreed upon.” Aeren stopped pacing and faced Colin. “Will you be well enough to attend?”
“Yes,” Colin said. “Whether Moiran agrees with me or not.”
Aeren smiled, the expression vanishing the instant Moiran ducked beneath the tent flap with a tray of food held carefully before her.
As she rose from her stooped position, she froze and shot Aeren a glare. “You let him sit up?”
When Aeren said nothing, she sniffed and moved to Colin’s side. The smell of hot soup filled the tent as she settled down beside him and checked his bandage, and his stomach rumbled loudly. Satisfied he’d come to no harm, she spooned up some of the soup and brought it to his lips, murmuring, “I leave you alone for five minutes . . .”
Colin nearly moaned as the soup filled his mouth with flavor.
Aeren grinned. “I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, moving toward the door flap.
“I’ll be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Moiran snapped.
Colin sent Aeren a wordless plea for help, but the lord ducked out of the tent with a low chuckle.
The next night, as the sun set, the Lords of the Evant gathered with their guardsmen and a few of their aides in the center of the flat. To the north, east, and south, sounds of celebration could be heard, muted by distance. The treaty had been agreed upon and signed. Official borders had been established and terms worked out regarding trade, politics, and aid. It was still tentative, still a little too new, no side quite trusting the others.
But it was a beginning.
Aeren stood at the front of the Alvritshai contingent along with Thaedoren. The rest of the lords hung back, their guards surrounding Khalaek, his hands secured behind his back. The Lord of House Duvoraen had suffered at the hands of the White Phalanx. Bruises covered his face, his arms, his chest. Aeren expected there would be more bruising beneath his clothes. His lip had been split and was crusted now with dried blood, but he stood rigid, back straight, head high, an arrogant sneer touching those lips. He kept his gaze forward, not looking at any of the Lords of the Evant, not reacting, even when one of the guards spat on the ground at his feet.
On the horizon, the sun vanished, the orange of the sky darkening and fading, the light withdrawing. Darkness bled westward, stars slipping into existence. Scattered fires appeared throughout all three armies.
And a single fire wound its way onto the flat from the direction of the human forces.
“Here they come,” Thaedoren said.
The lords waiting behind fidgeted, and in the light of the lanterns they’d brought with them, Aeren saw fear flit across Khalaek’s face, there and then gone, the arrogance returning.
They waited, the night cooling around them. A breeze gusted past, bringing with it smoke and the smell of roasted meat. Aeren glanced at Eraeth, at Colin on his Protector’s far side, the human looking healthier than he had any right to be, then turned back.
King Stephan and his Legion had arrived.
They came out of the darkness and into the Alvritshai lights like shadows, halted on the far reaches of that light. Aeren saw one of the Governors, Tanner Dain, and a few Legionnaires . . . but that was all. No escort of guardsmen to lead Khalaek back to the human army, no tribunal. Just Stephan and what Aeren would consider a minimal escort.
Ice slid down into his gut, and he grimaced.
Stephan meant to take care of Khalaek here.
“Do you have him?” Stephan asked.
Thaedoren stepped forward. “We do. But first we need to formally banish him.”
Stephan nodded.
Turning, Thaedoren motioned to the White Phalanx, who shoved Khalaek out into the space before the Tamaell Presumptive . . . the Tamaell in truth now, Aeren realized. There, they forced him to his knees in the churned up earth so that Thaedoren looked down on him.
“Khalaek,” Thaedoren said, and for a moment he let his own pain and hatred of the lord seep into his voice, “the Evant has ruled that you are a traitor to the Alvritshai people, that you conspired to murder the Tamaell of the Evant, and that you have betrayed the trust and loyalty given to you as Lord of House Duvoraen. As such, your life is forfeit. Your House has fallen, and a new House will ascend in its stead. Your lands, your properties, and all that is yours, will be given to the rising lord.”
No one within the Alvritshai ranks stirred, not even Lord Peloroun.
“However,” Thaedoren said, drawing a dagger from its sheath at his waist as he spoke. Khalaek flinched back, the White Phalanx around him grabbing his shoulders, holding him in place. “You were a Lord of the Evant. Because of this, and because of the newly established treaty with the Provinces, the sentence of death is rescinded. Instead, you will be branded a traitor and exiled from Alvritshai lands forever. Any who harbor you, any who give you aid, will be deemed traitors to the Alvritshai as well and punished accordingly.”
With that, Thaedoren stepped forward, grasped Khalaek by the hair and thrust his head back, turning it so that his cheek was exposed. He struggled, the Phalanx bearing down on him, but he stilled as soon as the blade touched his skin.
Thaedoren brought the dagger down slowly, slicing deep, cutting from near the corner of his eye, down along the cheek, to the base of the jaw. Khalaek hissed as blood welled, lantern light dancing on his face, the blood appearing black. As it dripped onto Khalaek’s shirt, Thaedoren twisted the lord’s head in the other direction and cut again on the opposite side, the same mark, taking his time, savoring the pain he inflicted.
When he was done, he pushed Khalaek’s head back roughly and spat into the lord’s face. “From now on, you are Khalaek-khai. You are nothing. Less than nothing.”
Khalaek fought the White Phalanx as they held him in check, blood flying as he thrashed his head back and forth.
But Thaedoren ignored him. Turning to face Stephan, he said, “He’s all yours.”
Then he turned, motioned to his Phalanx, to the lords, and moved away from Khalaek. The White Phalanx thrust Khalaek to the ground, where he writhed in the dirt, trying to rise, to gain his feet, his arms still trussed behind him.
But Stephan and the humans moved in, taking Thaedoren’s place.
Before Khalaek could gain his knees, the Legionnaires grabbed him, jerked him to his feet, spun him so he stood facing Stephan. His breath came in ragged gasps, and dirt now smeared his face, mixing with the blood.
Stephan drew his own dagger. Without preamble, he growled, “This is for my father.”
He shoved the dagger into Khalaek’s stomach, beneath the rib cage, one hand reaching up almost gently to cup the back of Khalaek’s head and bend him over the blade. He held it there a long moment, Khalaek gasping. Blood drooled from Khalaek’s mouth in a sickening, wet stream.
Then Stephan’s hand shifted. His fingers tangled in Khalaek’s hair, pulled him upright, and with a vicious wrench he tore the dagger from Khalaek’s gut.
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He let Khalaek fall. The Legionnaires had stepped back, so that now he faced Thaedoren and the Alvritshai over Khalaek’s body.
“Are the final terms of the treaty now satisfied?” Thaedoren asked, his voice expressionless.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And without another word, the two rulers turned and headed back toward their respective armies in the darkness, their escorts trailing behind them.
The shadow waited until darkness had reclaimed the flat . . . and then it waited a moment longer.
When night had settled again, the songs and dancing of the celebration thinning, it moved forward to the body left in the middle of the field. It gazed down at the crumpled shape a long moment, barely visible in the starlight, in the faint luminescence of the partial moon.
Then it crouched. Placing a hand on the body’s shoulder, it rolled Khalaek over onto his back.
The ex-lord moaned and coughed up a gout of blood. His guts lay partially exposed, blood bathing his entire front, drenching the earth beneath where he’d lain, but the figure ignored all the gore, moving so it could look into Khalaek’s glazed eyes.
There wasn’t much life left in those eyes, but there was enough.
The shadow smiled. “Ah, Khalaek-khai. If I didn’t have a use for you, I’d sit here and watch you die.”
Walter pulled a vial from his coat, held it up to the starlight a moment so he could peer through the clear liquid within then pulled the stopper.
Leaning close, he whispered, “Drink this,” then dribbled some of the liquid onto Khalaek’s lips.
And the scent of wet earth and dried leaves filled Khalaek’s senses.
Well of Sorrows Page 62