Well of Sorrows (58 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
Aeren bowed his head. “You honor me.”
Lotaern snorted. “I’m not certain I meant it as a compliment.” He turned away as Aeren raised his head. “What have you come to ask me about the sarenavriell?”
“I do not come to ask. I’m here to warn you.”
Lotaern’s hand fell to the desk. “Warn me of what?”
Aeren didn’t understand Lotaern’s reaction. He could feel the tension in the air, could hear it in Lotaern’s troubled voice. Something else was going on here, something that Aeren knew nothing about. He shared a glance with Eraeth, saw the uncertain shake of his head.
Lotaern turned back, his expression hard. “Warn me of what?”
Aeren drew his shoulders back. “While I crossed the plains on my return from the Provinces, I learned that the extent of the sarenavriell has increased.”
“How do you know this? Were you attacked by the sukrael?”
“No. We were told so by this man, this human.” Lotaern’s gaze fell on Colin and Aeren watched as the human drew himself up to his full height, his eyes darkening as Lotaern appraised him and, with a sniff, dismissed him.
“And you believe him.” A statement, but laced with condescension.
Aeren felt a flash of irritation. “I believe him, yes.”
“Why?”
Aeren answered carefully. “When I first met him on the plains, during my Trial, he was a boy.” Lotaern’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he shot Colin another considering look. “I befriended him and all of those on the wagon train, including his father, believing that they were a sign, of significance to my Trial. They had just come onto the plains, did not know of its dangers—the dwarren, the storms, the occumaen.”
“More of a danger now than back then,” Lotaern muttered, then apologized for his interruption with a wave of his hand. “Please continue.”
“I tried to warn them away, but it was difficult. We did not speak the same language. They refused to turn back, even when we showed them the burned wagons and slaughtered bodies of a previous party that had run into the dwarren. By this time, we had ventured far into dwarren territory, and we had been noticed. Their wagon train was attacked, but only by a scouting party. When the dwarren were driven away, they returned to their tent city, where an army of dwarren had already been gathered.
“The wagon train was caught between three clans and the sukrael’s forest. My attempts to warn them of the sukrael were futile. They took refuge near the forest and were attacked by the sukrael. Colin claims to have been found by the antruel, the Guardians of the forest, people he calls the Faelehgre. He says they led him to the sarenavriell, that they had him drink its waters.”
A deep frown etched lines of disbelief into Lotaern’s face. “I don’t believe it.”
“How else do you explain his presence? It has been over sixty years since my Trial, and yet here he stands, looking no older than thirty.”
“Tell him of his . . . abilities,” Eraeth murmured softly.
“What abilities?” Lotaern snapped.
Aeren sighed, head bowed, before looking up. “He can alter his appearance so that he is young or old at whim. And he can travel swiftly, faster than any of us. I have no other explanation for these abilities except the sarenavriell.”
Lotaern turned back to Colin, drifted forward. He drew up close to the human, glared down at him, at least a foot taller, then he leaned forward, so close Colin shifted back slightly before halting himself with clenched jaw and curled fists.
Lotaern sniffed at Colin’s neck, a long indrawn breath, and held it, eyes closed.
Colin sent Aeren a confused, angry glance, but Aeren shook his head.
When Lotaern drew back again, the glare had been replaced by a thoughtful expression. “He smells of the forest. The deep forest. He smells of the Lifeblood.” He hesitated, eyes narrowed, then snatched up Colin’s arm, pulling the sleeve back roughly, exposing the black mark. Aeren was shocked to discover the mark had grown, tendrils extending away from the wrist toward the elbow.
Lotaern grunted, then let Colin’s hand go. In Andovan, he said, “Become young. Show me what you looked like when you and Aeren first met.”
Colin’s eyes widened in surprise, Aeren guessed because of Lotaern’s fluent Andovan, but then they narrowed in anger. One hand covered the mark on his arm. “You sniffed me!”
Lotaern ignored him. “Convince me that you have touched the sarenavriell.”
Colin snorted, but then he shifted. Skin tightened and muscles toned, until the boy Aeren remembered from their first encounter stood in the center of the room, back rigid, his gaze not wavering from Lotaern’s, whose eyes had widened. The rest of the Phalanx in the room shifted in discomfort. There were no gasps, no sharply indrawn breaths. The Phalanx had already heard of or seen Colin’s powers, and Lotaern was too much of a lord in his own right to react.
“Can you hold this form? Can you become younger? Older?”
“I can become any age I want up to my own current age and stay there for as long as I want.”
In Alvritshai, Aeren interjected, “He was older when we met in Portstown. He seems to be growing younger the longer he stays with us.”
Lotaern nodded. His disbelief had faded completely, and he now had a scholarly look. “He claims that the Well’s influence has widened?” he asked Aeren.
“He claims more. He says that the sukrael have created something he calls Wraiths and that those Wraiths have left the forest. The Faelehgre told him this. They also told him that there are other sarenavriell, dormant ones, and that somehow they are being reawakened.”
Lotaern’s gaze had hardened. “And has he seen these . . . dormant Wells?”
“He has seen one of the newly reawakened ones.”
“Where?”
“In the northern part of the forest, not that far from the Licaeta House borders.”
Lotaern grunted as if struck and spun away from both Aeren and Colin. From the side, Aeren could see the Chosen pinching his lower lip between his fingers, head bowed, brow creased in furious thought.
“Forgive me, Chosen, but it appears that you knew something of this already.”
“And?” Lotaern let his hand drop, the lines of concern smoothing from his face. He became a lord, letting nothing show.
Aeren felt his irritation spike. “I came to you with this knowledge so that something could be done.”
The Chosen sighed heavily and began pacing, moving to the far side of the desk. “You put me in an awkward position, Lord Aeren. The Chosen’s purpose is to guard the secrets of the Scripts, and to advise the Evant in the event that something . . . unnatural occurs. The Order was established for this purpose. What you have revealed is one of those secrets, one that every acolyte of a certain rank is sworn to protect, one that
I
have sworn to protect. I cannot reveal such a secret on a whim, and certainly not on the word of a single human.”
I
have sworn to protect. I cannot reveal such a secret on a whim, and certainly not on the word of a single human.”
“But the sukrael—”
“I was not finished,” Lotaern said. He came to a halt behind the desk, pressed his hands into its polished surface and leaned forward, catching all of them with his gaze. “I would not believe you, or this human, except for two things. The first is that I have already been approached by the Tamaell and Lord Vaersoom from House Licaeta over an . . . incident on Licaeta lands. One of the outposts was attacked over a week ago, the Phalanx members all killed, at their posts, without a mark on their bodies. None of those on duty survived. In addition, a few surrounding Alvritshai villages and towns, those nearest the forest, were also attacked. The few who survived by fleeing report the very shadows themselves came to life to destroy them.”
“The sukrael.”
Lotaern nodded grimly. “Lord Vaersoom discounted the initial stories, believing that the villagers were lying, that there must be some other, more mundane explanation, that perhaps it was the dwarren raiding the borderlands as they have for the past hundred years. But he traveled to one of the towns himself, saw the bodies. Like the Phalanx at the outpost, they were found strewn about the town, dead, without a mark on them. Most had fallen while in the act of harvesting later winter wheat from the fields, their scythes still in their hands.”
Aeren glanced toward Eraeth, saw his Protector’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We’d hoped to arrive in time to warn you.”
Lotaern pushed back from his table. “You have. Before your arrival, I had only suspicions based on vague reports from villagers and the more concrete reports from Lord Vaersoom on the aftermath. You’ve confirmed those suspicions.”
“And did any of these villagers report on these other creatures, the ones Colin calls Wraiths?”
“No. They spoke only of shadows. No figures.”
“So what can we do to protect Licaeta?”
Lotaern grimaced. “I’m not certain. We’ve never had to battle the sukrael directly before. But there are references to them in the Scripts. I have acolytes researching those references already, but now that we have confirmation, I will double our efforts. I’m afraid that for the moment, the only option is to pull the Alvritshai away from the area of the sukrael’s influence. Does this human, Colin, know how far northward their range extends?”
Aeren turned to ask, but before he could speak Colin said, “I know a little Alvritshai. I didn’t waste all of my time in the forest sunk in grief. He’s asking about the Shadows.”
“Yes,” Aeren said in Andovan, wondering how much of the conversation Colin could follow. “He wants to know if you know the extent of the sukrael’s range. They’ve already attacked Alvritshai outposts and villages. And do you know a way to defend against them?”
“I don’t now what their range is, but I do know it’s expanding. The Well that I found, the one the Wraiths have awakened, it’s filling slowly, and as it fills, its range increases. As for killing the sukrael . . . if you can get them over water, deep water and especially running water, they can’t hold their form.”
Lotaern nodded, frowning in thought. “Our research has pointed to water as a defense on more than one occasion. Perhaps the aqueducts will be useful. I will inform Lord Vaersoom.”
Aeren waited a moment, then said, “You mentioned a second reason?”
Lotaern smiled grimly. “Yes. The second is the fact that nearly a month ago, one of my acolytes came to me with a rather bizarre request. He wished to do research on the Scripts, personal research.”
“On what?” Aeren said, stepping forward toward the desk.
“On the sarenavriell. I agreed to give him access to the Scripts, to allow him to do his research. It is not unheard of, especially when an acolyte has ambition. And this acolyte does. But this request felt . . . odd. So I watched him as he did his research, and when he left the Scriptorium, I perused the texts he’d used, noted the passages he’d copied, the maps he’d drawn. Would you care to guess where his interest in the sarenavriell lay? Not on their power, not on their uses, nor the lore surrounding them, but rather—”
“On their location,” Aeren finished.
“Precisely. He’s been researching where the sarenavriell are, attempting to find where they have been hidden. Some of them are known, such as the one in the forest. Most have been lost. But according to the passages this acolyte referred to, one was hidden in the northern forests.”
“This acolyte,” Eraeth said, his voice harsh. “What is his name? What House does he belong to?”
Lotaern gave him a placid look. “Acolytes rescind their House ties when they enter the Order. They are connected to no House, are beholden to no lord.”
Eraeth snorted, but before he could respond, Aeren broke in. “We both know that House ties are not so easily broken, no matter what vows are involved.” He touched the band around his wrist and the two lord’s rings on his fingers. His House had not been forgotten once he entered the Sanctuary.
Lotaern tapped his fingers on the desk. “True. And given what’s been happening in the Evant lately . . .” He began walking back toward the table against the far wall, where more plants waited. “I expect to be kept apprised of any actions that you take, and to be told of any information that you gather.”
“Of course,” Aeren said, bowing his head. He could feel where his hand gripped the hilt of his cattan. He didn’t know when his hand had drifted to it, but when Lotaern finally spoke, back to them all, he realized he’d already guessed what House the acolyte belonged to.
“The acolyte’s name is Benedine,” Lotaern said, “and he’s originally from House Duvoraen. Lord Khalaek’s House.”
Other books
Sub's Night Out by K.L. Joy
whiskey witches 01 - whisky witches by blooding, s m
Sammy's Christmas List by Lillianna Blake
Prisoner in Time (Time travel) by Petersen, Christopher David
The One She Was Warned About by Shoma Narayanan
Pandora Gets Vain (Pandora (Hardback)) by Hennesy, Carolyn
rock by Anyta Sunday
A Wizard Abroad, New Millennium Edition by Diane Duane
Winter's End by Cartharn, Clarissa
Adultery by Paulo Coelho