Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (48 page)
Colin hesitated, catching Eraeth’s eye. But while the Alvritshai Protector still scowled, it wasn’t as heartfelt as it had been before on the ship and the docks.
“Of course,” he said.
Aeren’s shoulders sagged in relief before he turned toward the Legion commander, his voice darkening. “Then it’s time to leave Corsair behind.”
Colin looked back as Aeren’s entourage—all on horseback, the White Phalanx riding to the front, the sides, and slightly behind—clopped down the flagstone-paved eastern road out of Corsair. The waters of the inlet glittered with the late evening sunlight, a turgid deep blue, cut by the activity of the boats and ships from both sides of the city. Birds wheeled and shrieked in the air over the water, gulls and terns and cormorants. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, settling in a thin layer at a uniform height. On the promontory, the Needle pierced the pale clouds that scudded across the sky, just beginning to show the pink-orange accents of the setting sun.
But it wasn’t the city or the palace that caught Colin’s attention. It was the Legion commander and the rest of the Legion he’d gathered, standing at the edge of the city, watching them depart. As he watched, the Legionnaire barked commands to those around him and cast one last baleful glance back, his eyes meeting Colin’s. A shock ran through Colin, tingling in his fingers, causing him to catch his breath—
And then the Legion commander cantered back into the city, lost among the buildings within the space of a heartbeat.
Most of the Legion remained behind.
Ahead, one of the Alvritshai removed a white banner from a satchel and unfolded it so that the black bundle of wheat could be seen, raising it on a standard whose base rested in a cup on the saddle. It declared that they were traveling under the King’s protection, and in theory it would keep the Legion and other Province citizens from attacking them on sight.
“He’ll send scouts to follow us,” Eraeth said, bringing his mount up close to Colin’s. His tone carried a sneer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he followed us himself.”
Colin shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He hadn’t ridden since the wagon train, over sixty years before; he could already feel aches in muscles he’d long forgotten. Frowning more at the saddle than at Eraeth, Colin said, “Wouldn’t you?”
Eraeth looked toward him, straightening as if affronted. “Of course.”
Colin expected Eraeth to retreat with a backward scowl. Instead, he glanced back toward Corsair, toward the Needle, then cast a troubled frown toward Aeren.
The lord of the Rhyssal House rode near the front, his back stiff, head held high, looking straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken to Eraeth or any of his own Phalanx since the palace Colin suddenly realized.
Colin looked at Eraeth out of the corner of his eye, saw the wrinkles of concern near his eyes, the tightening of the skin in the Alvritshai’s pale face.
“What does Rhyssal-aein mean?” he asked suddenly.
Eraeth broke off the scrutiny of his lord. He hesitated, then said shortly, “Friend of Rhyssal.”
“What does that mean?”
Eraeth’s mouth twisted with derision, but then he seemed to reconsider, focusing on Colin as he settled back into his saddle. His tone was clipped, but serious. “To the Alvritshai, it means that you are under the protection of the Rhyssal House, that those of the House are to protect you from harm, that Aeren has taken responsibility for you and has extended that responsibility to everyone in the House.” He paused, then added, “It also means that you are a representative of the Rhyssal House. Everything that you do, everything that you say, every gesture and emotion, will reflect on the House.”
Colin thought back to the wharf, when they’d arrived in Corsair. “That’s why the guards changed their stance on the docks then, when we first arrived?”
“Yes.” Eraeth glared at Aeren’s back. “The Phalanx is bound to protect you now.” And under his breath, “At least until he comes to his senses.”
Colin ignored him even though he knew it had been meant to be heard. Instead, he glanced around at the surrounding land. Fields lined the roadway to either side, interspersed with farm-houses, barns, storage sheds for grain, and the earthen mounds of potato cellars. The ground appeared rocky, which accounted for the paved road, now made out of carefully fitted granite rather than the flagstone used near the city. The rough, low walls separating the fields were made of the same stone, as were the buildings. Everywhere he looked, workers halted their harvesting and watched the Alvritshai group pass, dogs barking in wild abandon. A pack of children followed them for a long stretch, until one of the mothers called them back with a few harsh words, taking her own son by the ear when he got close enough. Colin smiled.
“And what does shaeveran mean?” he asked. “I’ve heard the Phalanx calling me that since we were on the courier ship.”
Eraeth regarded him a long moment. His face was set, probably the first serious look the Protector had given him that wasn’t twisted with a slight scowl or sneer.
Then he turned away and said, “It means shadow. You’ve been touched by the sukrael, marked by them. They call you Shadow because of it.”
Colin’s gaze dropped to his arm, to where the black mark lay hidden beneath the sleeve of his silk shirt, and his stomach clenched. A tremor passed through his arms, and for a brief moment, the scent of earth, leaves, and snow nearly overpowered him. He could feel the vial of Lifeblood in the satchel strapped to his horse’s side, but he resisted reaching for it.
The effort sent a shudder through his body. He’d thought it would get easier the farther away from the Well he traveled, but it hadn’t. Osserin had been right: The presence of the Lifeblood made it worse. Yet he couldn’t force himself to pour the Lifeblood out.
Up ahead, Aeren had slowed, the Phalanx at point drawing to a halt. Colin glanced around, saw that the farmland had given way to low hills dotted with patches of trees and grass. The road had become a hard-packed gravel track with low walls on either side, striking out hard toward the north and the city of Rendell in the next Province. But it looked as though Aeren intended to cut away to the east.
“Where are we going?” Colin asked.
Eraeth grunted and shot him a dark look, back to his usual disapproving glare, then nudged his horse forward to speak to Aeren.
Colin sighed.
An hour later, the group angled sharply east, heading deep into the plains.
“Should we continue following them?”
On horseback, on a tree- lined ridge distant enough that he doubted the Alvritshai would notice him, Legion Commander Tanner Dain lowered the spyglass he had held to his eye with an angry frown. He’d led the group of scouts sent to keep an eye on the Alvritshai lord and his party as they left the Provinces, and his initial rage at their audacity—asking for peace after murdering King Maarten at the Escarpment and bringing an obvious spy before the King—had lessened, tinged heavily with grudging respect. Mostly because the Alvritshai had done exactly as they said they would: headed north and east, to the plains. They hadn’t stopped to speak with anyone, and as far as his scouts had been able to find out, there wasn’t an army of Alvritshai waiting to meet up with them anywhere close by. All the intelligence he’d managed to gather had indicated that this Lord Aeren and his group on the courier ship had come to the Provinces alone, for exactly the purposes they’d stated—the prospect of trade with the Governors.
That didn’t mean he had to like it.
“No,” he finally said, then sighed. “No, leave them. They’ve left the Provinces, as they said they would.”
A small part of his mind began to wonder. Could Lord Aeren’s offer of potential peace be sincere?
Tanner’s brow creased in annoyance, and he shoved the nagging thought aside.
“What should we do then?”
Tanner dragged his eyes away from the receding figures of the Alvritshai and the lone human in their midst—nothing more than dark shapes on the gold of the grass now—and faced his captain, pulling his mount around in the process. The horse snorted and shook its head, stamping the ground between the trees once, as if impatient to get moving. Tanner suddenly felt the same impatience itching between his shoulders.
“We head back to Corsair to report to the King. We have more important issues to deal with than the Alvritshai.”
“Like what?” his captain asked, casting a heated glance in the direction of the Alvritshai party. For the first time, Tanner noted the gray streaks in the captain’s hair, registered the man’s age. He’d likely been at the Escarpment. A young man then, perhaps barely fifteen. He might have experienced the Alvritshai betrayal firsthand, might have lost friends to the battle fought afterward, as they tried to retreat.
“Like the Andovans,” Tanner said sharply, his tone catching the man’s attention. “They’re a more imminent threat than the Alvritshai at the moment.”
And with that, he shoved the Alvritshai from his mind and kicked his horse toward Corsair, his thoughts turning west, toward the Andovans and the protection of the coast.
14
“D
RIFTER!” COLIN CALLED SHARPLY.
RIFTER!” COLIN CALLED SHARPLY.
Eraeth, standing about twenty paces distant, spun, his sword half drawn before he realized that Colin pointed toward one of the strange rippling distortions. Colin had seen one a few days out onto the plains after leaving the Well to return to Portstown. But that had been distant and looked no larger than a man; it had been far enough away that he could shrug it off as heat haze, although he was certain it wasn’t.
This one was much closer and much larger—big enough to swallow the entire group of Alvritshai with Colin, even with them scattered apart as they were during the rest period.
Eraeth snorted in derision and slipped his sword back into place with a snick. But Colin noticed he didn’t relax.
Neither did any of the other Alvritshai who’d looked up. They all tracked the distortion’s slow, steady progress as it slid by. The grass beneath the translucent ripples bent downward beneath it, pressed flat at the drifter’s base. Waves spread outward from it, as if it were a stone thrown into water.
When it became apparent that it wouldn’t drift close enough to them to be a concern, Eraeth turned back to his horse, lifting up one of the animal’s hooves to check for damage. He slipped a small tool, like a miniature pick, from a pouch and began cleaning.
Colin shifted closer, his own horse still drinking heavily from the stream that bubbled up from the earth near the base of a small hillock. Sources of water were scarce on the plains, since most of it was hidden underground, so when they found a stream aboveground, they always stopped to refill their waterskins. The Alvritshai seemed to know where the streams were located and had hidden caches of food stored at various places on the plains—mostly dried, smoked gaezel, spiced, like what Aeren had offered his father and the rest of the greeting party when they’d first met on the plains. Once, they’d even halted in the middle of a flat and dug down into the earth until water gurgled to the surface and formed a small pool. Eating was formal, almost ritualistic, even here on the plains, as it had been during their meeting over sixty years before. Nearly everything the Alvritshai did was ritualistic, stiff and formal, and yet Colin found himself settling into the rhythms as the days passed.
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