Authors: Joshua Palmatier
Well of Sorrows (59 page)
To catch the verge of the Drifter sweeping past overhead, the ripples of the distortion no more than six feet away. Every hair on his body prickled and stood on end, energy pouring over him, filled with the taste of the Well, the loam and leaves so thick on his tongue he thought he’d swallowed dirt. His body shuddered with the ecstasy of the Well, with its blatant potency, and he felt tears streaming down his face.
Then it passed by, the sensations fading, the roar of the wind dying, and he collapsed onto the grass on his back.
Beside him, he felt the Tamaea stir, sit upright—
And then she screamed, “Faeren!” A tortured scream, choked with tears.
He felt the Tamaea scrambling to her feet and, body shaking with weakness, a strange lethargy stealing through him, he managed to roll back onto his side. He couldn’t lift his head. The effort was too great.
He watched, dead grass pricking his cheek, as the Tamaea stumbled out into the remains of the camp. Where the Tamaell’s tents had stood, there was nothing but a swath of exposed earth. To either side, the ground was littered with collapsed tents, tattered canvas still fluttering to the ground. And bodies. Most were beginning to stir, moans and groans replacing the fading winds. The Tamaea worked her way through the detritus, took a few steps out into the empty earth, and then halted.
Faeren, Grae, and the rest of the Phalanx who had run with them from the Tamaea’s tent were gone, swallowed by the Drifter, along with a significant chunk of the camp itself.
And the Drifter hadn’t faded. Colin fell onto his back again.
No, the Drifter wasn’t finished. He could still feel it.
“Look!”
Aeren shifted his attention from trying to control his frenzied mount out toward the plains, in the direction the Phalanx member had pointed. The group of Phalanx—from both House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen—had gathered on the ridge above the camp, other Phalanx members and servants scattered among them. All of them had expressions of exhaustion and horror on their faces as they watched the huge occumaen wreak havoc among the tents. It pushed its way westward, tents flailing in its winds like birds, debris whirling in a deadly storm. People ran in all directions as it plowed its way forward, swallowing tents and earth whole. Those caught at the edges were sliced in half. Aeren could see at least two crawling away from it, a woman without an arm and a man without legs. Those closer to the eye simply . . . vanished. Once the occumaen passed by, they were gone, nothing left behind, simply gone.
Breath of Heaven.
They’d been called to Aielan.
He felt an overwhelming horror creep through him, his body going numb with shock. His heart still pounded from the mad dash into the camp, yelling and bellowing, trying to goad people up and away before the occumaen hit, followed by the scramble to get out of its way himself. One of his own Phalanx hadn’t made it, he and his horse caught in its eddies as they tried to flee.
Now, body still numbed and shaking, he saw what the Phalanx guard had pointed out.
There, on the edge of the occumaen, he saw a smear of motion, a shadow drawing away from the distortion that lurched and solidified into Colin and the Tamaea. His heart leaped with hope, and then the two stumbled and fell to the ground.
The arm of the occumaen—the Breath of Heaven—passed above them. Their bodies rippled with its distortions, as if they were trapped beneath heat waves . . . and then it slid by, leaving them unscathed.
An uncertain cheer spread through the group, led by his own Phalanx, who understood what the smeared shadow had been. The rest picked up on it when the Tamaea lurched to her feet and staggered toward the remains of the camp. He thought she’d fall to her knees in the churned up dirt where tents had stood mere moments ago, but he saw her shoulders stoop instead.
“Berec, Larren, take a contingent down to get the Tamaea, immediately!”
Aeren turned toward Lord Khalaek as his men broke into swift action, bellowing orders as they went. “That man—that human— saved the Tamaea’s life,” he said.
Khalaek looked at him in disdain, then glanced around at all of those closest, who’d heard what Aeren had said, who’d witnessed what Colin had done. He stiffened at some of the looks he got. “He’ll be treated . . . well.”
Khalaek practically growled it, but Aeren nodded.
Eraeth suddenly appeared at Aeren’s side. “The occumaen,” he said, but didn’t finish.
“What?” Aeren and Khalaek snapped at the same time.
Eraeth grew suddenly formal, face blank, body rigid. “It’s headed directly toward the battle.”
Both Aeren and Khalaek spun, saw the occumaen churning over the ridge. From this side, there was no eye, no glimpse into another stretch of plains, no second sun and spring grass. From this side, it appeared to be nothing more than a ripple of heat waves.
“Sound the horns!” Khalaek roared. “Sound them for retreat!” Then he kicked his horse into motion, the rest of the House Duvoraen Phalanx charging after him. They hadn’t been gone two breaths when the sound of a horn pierced the air, joined a moment later by two others, all pealing out the long note for retreat.
“Come on,” Aeren said, motioning to Eraeth.
They followed Khalaek’s men to the crest of the rise and stared down into the flat beyond, where the Legion and the Alvritshai armies still fought. Khalaek continued to sound the retreat, even as he and his men raced across the flat. Dust rose behind them as they banked wide around the occumaen.
On the field, the mass of men surged back and forth, oblivious to the distortion. As Aeren watched, the sounds of Khalaek’s horns finally caught the attention of those at the back of the Alvritshai army. He saw the ripples in the army spread as word was passed, new horns joining Khalaek’s, and Alvritshai began to break away from the rear, men and horses fleeing. Khalaek altered course, swinging his group wide and circling the army to the left. But still the conflict raged in the middle, swords flashing in the afternoon sunlight, blood flying, men falling.
The occumaen drifted closer, its distortion obscuring part of the army to the north. Aeren saw the first men in the Legion break away as they spotted the danger, practically stumbling over each other in their haste to retreat. The horns grew more frantic, the smooth notes blatty and warbled.
Eraeth edged forward, his hands tight on the reins of his mount. “They aren’t going to see it in time.”
Aeren pressed his lips together, but said nothing.
Then, when it seemed that the occumaen would plow through the edge of the two locked armies, three short blasts sounded, the single horn piercing through the cacophony of all the rest.
The Alvritshai army abruptly turned and broke away from the lead group of Legion. Aeren saw the Tamaell’s flags pulling back from the center, saw the Legion spilling into the gap, a few men chasing after the retreating Alvritshai.
But not the King. His banners remained behind. Banners flashed back and forth among all of King Stephan’s groups. Aeren couldn’t read the signals, but when the men began pulling back, he knew they’d also called a retreat. The men charging after the Alvritshai either hadn’t seen the orders, or were blatantly disobeying them.
It cost them their lives.
The occumaen plowed into the edges of both armies, its arms catching those who’d stayed to fight a little too long and those who’d been unable to retreat fast enough. Banners on both sides were caught in the occumaen’s winds, thrashing as dust churning upward. Closest to the occumaen, bodies of horses and men were lifted from the ground where they’d fallen earlier, and Aeren would have sworn the winds were tinged a black-red from the blood already spilled on the battlefield.
It sliced cleanly through the two armies, and when it passed, it left behind a scar of churned earth, as it had in the Alvritshai encampment. When Aeren saw the Tamaell’s banners still raised, he released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a harsh sigh. The two armies, separated by the scarred earth, milled about for a long moment, long enough that Aeren thought they might engage each other again. He felt the old, bitter anger building inside him. The occumaen drifted out past the flat, to the edge of the Escarpment that could barely be seen in the distance, and then beyond. It hovered in thin air, still drifting, and then wavered as it began to dissipate.
Both sides of the battle turned from the field. Aeren relaxed back into his saddle and watched as the Alvritshai moved wearily up the slope toward them, the Tamaell’s escort edging to the front ranks. The Legion withdrew to the north, where Aeren could make out their own encampment, untouched by the occumaen.
As the Tamaell’s escort approached, Aeren stepped forward, Eraeth at his side. The Tamaell sat in the saddle, back rigid, his armor coated with dust and blood, his face smeared with sweat and grit. He carried himself stiffly, yet with a deadly grace, the exhaustion from the day’s battle apparent only around the edges of his eyes and in the angry creases in his brow. All the men around him appeared the same—except Lord Khalaek—although their fatigue was easier to see in their slumped shoulders and hunched backs.
Fedorem saw Aeren’s approach and slowed. The army began to slow as well, until an order was passed back. The Phalanx—the Tamaell’s and the rest of the Houses of the Evant—began spilling around them toward the camp. Groans escaped most men as they saw the destruction the occumaen had caused, some of shock, others of worry.
Khalaek must have already informed Fedorem, for he didn’t react to the state of their camp at all. Instead, he scanned Aeren’s group and called, “Where is the Tamaea? Where is Moiran?”
“She is—” Aeren began. “Here, my Tamaell.”
Aeren’s escort parted, and the Tamaea stepped through, her clothes stained with mud and grass, her hair in disarray. A smudge of dirt marked her forehead, as if she’d wiped at it with her arm.
She halted a step away from the Tamaell’s horse, and for a moment it appeared that Fedorem would not react. He sat, staring at her, his face unreadable, although for a brief moment Aeren thought he trembled.
Then he swung down from his mount and drew Moiran to him in a hard embrace. He murmured something to her, his face pressed into her hair, and tears shone in Moiran’s eyes as she hesitated and then held Fedorem in return, clutching his battered and bloody armor to her, uncaring.
Aeren and the rest of the escort that surrounded them shuffled and looked elsewhere. Such displays were not generally shown in public, especially not among those in the Evant.
They clung to each other a moment longer, until the Tamaell pushed Moiran back. The Tamaea regained her composure immediately and said, her voice rough, “It was the human, Colin, who saved me from the occumaen. I would not have survived otherwise.”
Surprise flashed across Fedorem’s face, replaced with a solemn expression as he searched among the Alvritshai faces. Not finding Colin, his gaze settled on Aeren. “Where is he? I wish to thank him personally.”
“He is with Lotaern and the acolytes, recovering. The Order has already begun tending to the wounded, at the Tamaea’s request.”
“I see. Then I will attend him later.” His stance shifted, and he stepped away from Moiran toward Aeren. “Lord Khalaek informs me you’ve come with a message from my son.”
“I have.”
“What is it?”
Aeren looked toward Khalaek and narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t tell the Tamaell about the sukrael, not with Khalaek standing there.
“Out with it!” Fedorem barked, startling everyone.
Aeren straightened where he sat and met the Tamaell’s angry, brooding gaze. “The Tamaell Presumptive has met and spoken with the dwarren Gathering, as you requested, and they’ve refused to deal with the Tamaell Presumptive.”
Khalaek snorted in derision, as if he’d expected no less. But Aeren wasn’t finished.
“Instead, they wish to speak to you directly, Tamaell. They’re coming here, to the Escarpment. And they’re bringing their army with them.”
20
TOLD HIM
NOT
TO BRING THE DWARREN HERE!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.
He tried not to react as the Tamaell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the look Eraeth shot him from one side. Colin, seated on the other side, simply watched silently, not quite recovered from saving the Tamaea.
The Tamaell had controlled himself while they reached the tattered remains of the camp, had marshaled all of the Lords of the Evant into action to clean up and salvage what they could of the tents and supply wagons, over half of which were unscathed, including the wagon that Aeren had left with the contingent. He’d spent a long moment alone with the Tamaea before she took control of the medical teams tending to the wounded, paying close attention to those like the man who’d lost both legs to the occumaen and the woman who’d lost her arm. But during all of this, Aeren could tell the Tamaell had been fuming.
It had only been a matter of time. And privacy.
“I don’t believe the Tamaell Presumptive was given much choice,” Aeren ventured.
Fedorem snorted. “Thaedoren and I discussed this at length. He was to meet with the dwarren, placate them, act humble or defiant, but he was to
keep them away from the Escarpment
! It should have been a simple task, after what happened to them the last time all three races met here!”
Aeren frowned. “It might have been simple, except for one thing.”
“What?” Fedorem growled, but it caught his attention. He stopped pacing, his black gaze leveled at Aeren.
“The sukrael.”
It surprised him. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “What do the sukrael have to do with this?”
Aeren shifted where he sat, aware of the Tamaell’s eyes boring into him. He felt Colin stir to one side.
“The Tamaell Presumptive—”
“Thaedoren,” Fedorem said gruffly. “Call him Thaedoren here.”
Aeren nodded, although it made him even more uncomfortable. “Thaedoren informed them of the attacks in Licaeta. It appears there have been similar attacks on the dwarren, to the south and the east in particular. These attacks are more serious than those in Licaeta, to the extent that the dwarren have been forced to turn their attention toward protecting themselves from the sukrael.”
Fedorem had bowed his head in thought. “So when you approached them with the possibility of peace—”
“It came at an auspicious time for them, yes.”
“So they actually intended to form some type of agreement with us? A treaty of some sort?”
Aeren nodded. “Yes.”
Fedorem continued pacing, mumbling to himself. “Thaedoren didn’t believe it. He thought it was a trick.”
Aeren thought about Thaedoren standing on the rise before the meeting tent, frowning down at the dwarren encampment in consternation. “I believe the dwarren convinced him otherwise.”
Fedorem drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a sigh, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do the dwarren know why the sukrael can suddenly move beyond their usual boundaries? Those boundaries have remained stable for generations, hundreds of years at least. Lotaern has told me of your claims that the sukrael have begun reawakening sarenavriell.”
Aeren felt sweat break out along his shoulders and in the palms of his hands. “The dwarren have no idea. They believe this may be a sign that the world is Turning. But what Lotaern told you was correct: The sukrael are reawakening the Wells.”
Fedorem nodded, as if he’d expected that answer.
Aeren hesitated, glancing once toward Colin; the human’s face was drained, leeched of color, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Then Aeren said, “However, there is something more that we have discovered about the sukrael and the sarenavriell.”
Fedorem turned toward him with a questioning look.
“It has to do with the Wraiths, the creatures created by the sukrael. And with Lord Khalaek.”
And he told the Tamaell all that he’d told Thaedoren and had learned from the dwarren in turn. He told him of Colin’s powers, of Benedine, of how Colin had followed Benedine as he’d met with one of Khalaek’s aides, how that aide had reported back to Khalaek, and Benedine’s subsequent horrific death by the Wraith.
Fedorem remained silent the entire time he spoke, nodding or grimacing, but never once looking at Aeren, Colin, or Eraeth.
When Aeren finished, he said stiffly, “And you did not feel the need to inform me or the Evant of your suspicions regarding
Khalaek?”
“As I told Thaedoren, I have mere suspicions, no proof. The Lords of the Evant would not accept the word of a human, not with the power that Khalaek wields.”
Fedorem nodded, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment of the explanation, Aeren couldn’t tell. Then the Tamaell turned to Colin.
“It seems the Alvritshai—that I—am in your debt,” he said, in perfect, uninflected Andovan. “The Tamaea explained that without your intervention, the occumaen would have claimed her.”
Colin seemed taken aback, although it was hard to tell through his exhaustion. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Finally, in a rough, weary voice, he managed to say, “There is no debt, Tamaell.”
“So you say, but what you have done will not be forgotten.” Fedorem drew breath, as if he’d say more, but then turned toward Aeren instead. “When do you expect my son and the dwarren to arrive?”
Aeren could hear the change in the Tamaell’s voice—a shift toward action, the discussion nearly over. “No more than two days from now. The dwarren are moving fast. The clan chiefs agreed to march ahead of the supply wagons, so the army will be arriving first, with the entire Gathering, and Thaedoren as escort.”
“Then we have little time to prepare,” Fedorem said, motioning for Aeren and the others to rise. “Wait here for a moment while I change.”
Aeren and Eraeth exchanged a glance as the Tamaell ducked back into the room beyond. “That went better than I expected,” Aeren said.
“It isn’t over yet,” Eraeth muttered. Aeren frowned. “No, it isn’t.”
Colin wavered where he stood, and Aeren reached out to steady him. “You look pale.”
Colin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“Then rest. As soon as we leave the tent. The Tamaell and I will not need you.”
Colin nodded.
And then Fedorem returned, dressed now in the formal white and red of the Tamaell.
“Where are we going?” Aeren asked as Fedorem led them out of the tent, into the section of the camp that had not been torn apart by the occumaen.
“I want to speak to Lotaern about the sukrael and the sarenavriell,” the Tamaell said tightly.
“You should have come forward with this information,” the Tamaell said.
Aeren, Eraeth, the Tamaell, and Lotaern stood outside one of Lotaern’s tents as he watched the members of his Order picking through the debris left by the occumaen by torch and lantern light. Darkness had fallen, but the camp was still full of movement, fires scattered to either side of the occumaen’s path. A much larger blaze burned to the south, where the dead had been taken to be honored, blessed, and burned in order to return their souls to Aielan’s Light under the direction of the Order of the Flame’s acolytes. The black, oily smoke blotted out the stars as it drifted south, carried away from the camp by the faint breeze.
“And you would have listened?” Lotaern growled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his body turned slightly away from the Tamaell. “Listened to the word of a human, brought to you by one of the lords of the Evant, a known rival of Lord Khalaek?”
Aeren stiffened at the tension he felt between the two—Lotaern and the Tamaell—but forced himself to relax. The leader of the Order and the ruler of the Alvritshai had opposed each other since Fedorem had ascended within the Evant. Lotaern wanted more power, for himself and for the Order. Fedorem felt the Order had no place in the Evant. The argument was old and had lasted for decades.
“I would have listened to the Chosen of the Order!” Fedorem spat. “Especially regarding the sarenavriell and the sukrael. You are the holder of the Scripts. This is your domain.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Lotaern turned and faced the Tamaell directly, one eyebrow raised. “The sarenavriell, the ruanavriell—all of the five powers—are under the mantle of Aielan’s Light and as such are the Order’s concern, not the Evant’s. Unless I have reason to believe they will somehow affect the Alvritshai directly, there is no need for me to report to you.”
“The Order does not consider the involvement of one of the Lords of the Evant a direct assault on the Alvritshai?”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I did not realize until recently that Lord Khalaek was involved,” he hissed. “If I had known . . .” He trailed off in furious indignation.
The Tamaell straightened. “And what of these men?” Fedorem demanded, motioning toward the members of the Order working to clean up the damage done by the occumaen. “This Order of the Flame? The creation of an army within the Order, trained in secret? What is the Evant to make of that?”
His voice had gone dangerously quiet. Lotaern met the challenge silently, the two glaring at each other in the firelit darkness.
“You have overstepped the bounds of the Order,” Fedorem said quietly.
“We shall see,” Lotaern growled.
Aeren stepped between the two, catching their attention. “Right now—” he nodded to where Lotaern’s men were lifting up a collapsed tent, one of the men crying out and bending over a limp body “—it’s unimportant.”
Both Lotaern and Fedorem watched in silence as one of the members of the Order of the Flame grabbed the body beneath the arms and lifted, another taking the legs. They carried the man’s corpse to one side, out of the reach of the torchlight, murmuring the litany for the dead, their words fading into the night.
The animosity between the Chosen and the Tamaell lessened, Lotaern bowing his head a moment, eyes closed.
When he looked back up, he said to Aeren, “What have you told him?”
“Everything that Colin has told us.”
“Then there isn’t much more I can explain.” His voice was still cold. “The sarenavriell have existed since the Scripts were written, have existed since before the last time the world Turned, even before that.”
“And the sukrael?” Fedorem asked.
Lotaern hesitated. “It was thought that the sukrael and the Faelehgre had existed as long as the sarenavriell, that they had been established as guardians and protectors. That is how they are depicted in the Scripts.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. “But since then I’ve spoken to Shaevaren at length about his time in the forest, his time among the Faelehgre and near the sarenavriell. It seems that the sukrael and the Faelehgre are more prisoners than guardians. And now they’ve found a way to escape, in a limited way. I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can tell you than that. I do not know how they are awakening the sarenavriell. I do not know how they created the Wraiths.”
Fedorem frowned. “And what about the occumaen? Is there a connection between it and the sukrael?”
Lotaern snorted, but then he paused, brow creasing in concentration. Almost reluctantly, he said, “It’s possible. The sukrael have been awakening powers long left dormant. It may be having unintended or unexpected consequences. But if there is a connection, I think it’s just that: unintended. I don’t think the sukrael are creating the occumaen on purpose. They have a different agenda.”
“It would explain why they’ve become so much larger,” Eraeth said from his place a step behind them all.
“And stronger,” Lotaern agreed. “It might also explain the increase in the number of unnatural storms on the plains as well.” He mulled the new idea over in his head, considering the possibilities.
Fedorem fell silent for a long moment. On the far horizon, purplish-blue lightning flickered in the darkness, although there were no clouds obscuring the sky yet.