Well of Sorrows (65 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
Fedorem emerged from the tangle of lords and attendants on foot and bellowed, “We’ll halt here for the night.”
Murmurs rose from those nearest as the orders were passed down the line, both by word of mouth and by horn. Servants burst into sudden activity, wagons directed to either side of the path they’d made through the grasslands, spreading out, cooks hauling food and wares from trunks and compartments, others scattering to the nearest visible copses of the trees in search of firewood to supplement what they’d brought with them, the Phalanx themselves settling shifts for sentries, assigned scouts darting away onto the plains. Moiran normally would have watched the setting up of camp intently, since her duties as lady of the House and as head of the Ilvaeran included making certain the convoy had supplies, but instead she observed Fedorem. The Tamaell watched his men intently, Thaedoren emerging from the group with the weary scout in tow as the lords scattered, most with pensive expressions or deep frowns on their faces. As soon as Thaedoren appeared, Moiran nudged her horse around her bodyguard and approached Fedorem, ignoring the Phalanx’s protests.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Fedorem’s face set, his jaw clenched, chin lifted slightly as he turned away.
Moiran felt herself stiffen, her hands clutching the reins tighter. “Why are we stopping? What news did the scout bring?” Then, in a softer, more dangerous voice: “Don’t tell me it isn’t important. He wouldn’t have ridden his horse to death if it weren’t.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thaedoren cast his father a questioning look. “Father?”
Without turning, Fedorem said harshly, “No. We haven’t discussed it yet.” Then he turned to face Moiran, stance stern and solid, like stone. But Moiran saw the touch of worry in his eyes, a hint of fear. “Thaedoren and I will be in the council’s tent. We’ll be eating there as well, will likely remain there most of the night.”
Then he spun and motioned to Thaedoren and the scout, heading toward where the tent was even now being erected.
Moiran gripped her reins even harder. She forced herself to calm, suppressed a scream of frustration, then turned and spat, “Games!” under her breath.
“My Tamaea?” her attendant asked timidly.
Moiran hadn’t even realized the girl had followed her. She couldn’t even remember her name . . . Fae? Faeren?
But a thought suddenly struck her, and her shoulders relaxed, a slight smile touching her lips. Easing her horse forward, toward her own tents, she motioned the attendant closer. “I have something I need you to attend to,” she said.
“Yes, Tamaea.”
Moiran felt the guardsman fall into position behind her, just out of earshot, and her smile widened.
Aeren halted at the edge of the Tamaea’s—and the Tamaell’s—range of tents and frowned into the darkness. The late afternoon and evening had been a flurry of activity as the convoy settled in after the arrival of the scout and the unexpected halt. Messengers had run between all of the lords’ encampments. Aeren himself had sent some of those messages in an attempt to gather as much information as possible. But he’d learned only what the other lords knew, which was nothing more than what he’d overheard the scout reveal after his arrival, before Fedorem had cut the scout’s report short and called the halt.
And then Faeren had arrived and delivered her message:
Tamaea Moiran Resue requests the presence of Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal, to dine in the Tamaea’s tents in the absence of the Tamaell Fedorem Resue.
Without moving, he scanned the fires scattered throughout the Tamaell’s enclave, his gaze lingering on those near the council tent. He could see light flickering inside, but he could not see any shapes or figures moving about.
Aeren’s gaze drifted to the Tamaea’s tent, and his frown deepened. “What do you want, Tamaea?” he whispered to himself.
In the distance, someone laughed, the sound jarring in the openness of the plains, the stillness of the night. Aeren breathed in the chill air, tasted winter on it, then stared up briefly at the brittle stars overhead, the sliver of moon.
He stepped across the imaginary boundary between the rest of the camp and the Tamaell’s domain and moved swiftly toward the Tamaea’s tents. One of the Phalanx stiffened as he approached, then recognized him and let him pass without a word.
The two Phalanx outside the tent did not.
“The Tamaea requested my presence for dinner tonight,” he said.
The taller of the two nodded. “I’ll inform the Tamaea you have arrived.”
As he waited, Aeren realized he could see his breath on the air, a faint plume, visible only because of the nearness of a fire. He shivered.
The Phalanx guard returned. “You may enter. The food has already been served.”
Aeren nodded, then ducked down through the entrance of the tent.
He smelled spices a moment before slipping through a second opening deeper inside the tent—sage and parsley, nearly smothered by the scent of spiced venison. When he stood, the apprehension he’d felt in coming here surged.
The Tamaea sat before a single small table with two settings, bowls of food of various sizes spread out on either side, steam rising from most. Another low table sat to one side, a decanter of wine and two glasses already set out, along with a tray of cheese and grapes. The floor was littered with pillows, a large pillow serving as a seat. Lanterns lit the room, the flames creating a soft light.
“Welcome, Lord Aeren,” the Tamaea said, her mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Please join me.”
Suddenly wary, Aeren moved to the pillow opposite the Tamaea, settling himself slowly, legs crossed. “I did not realize this was a . . . private dinner,” he said.
The Tamaea reached for the wine, pouring two glasses as she said, “As private as the Tamaea can make it.” She passed Aeren’s glass to him and raised hers, one eyebrow tilted upward, “To . . . alliances.”
Aeren stilled, eyes narrowing, then raised his own glass. “To peaceful alliances.”
The Tamaea nodded, then sipped her wine before setting it aside and turning to the food, taking a small portion from each bowl before passing them to Aeren. Her motions were smooth and practiced, even though a servant typically served at dinner.
She spoke as she worked.
“It’s been an interesting few weeks. Your arrival and the news you brought, the meeting of the Evant and the assembly of the army—”
“Envoy,” Aeren interrupted, without thinking.
The Tamaea froze, a skewer of meat half-raised toward her plate, her eyes on him. They held steady for a moment, then dropped as she set the skewer down slowly and handed him the bowl. “I’d hoped that this could be an open discussion. One where we could share information, without any dissembling.” She locked eyes with him, the smile no longer present, her expression hard and serious, her hands in her lap. “This is not an envoy. Not anymore. Not since we were joined by the Phalanx at the border. This is an army. Both of us know this.”
Silence settled. A silence Aeren felt against his skin, tingling. A silence intensified by the Tamaea’s unwavering gaze.
Aeren set the bowl of skewered meat down with a sigh. “I’d hoped that this would be an end to the conflict with the dwarren. I’d hoped . . . many things. But you are correct, Tamaea. This is an army.”
She didn’t move. “The scout.”
Aeren nodded. He glanced down at the food on his plate, no longer hungry.
“What news did he bring?”
“The Tamaell has not told you?”
“The Tamaell has chosen not to inform me.”
He could leave. He knew that. He was a Lord of the Evant, and the Tamaea need not concern herself with the dealings of the Evant, of the lords and the Tamaell.
But Aeren knew that the Tamaell had something planned, Khalaek as well. He had Lotaern as an ally, and Lord Barak. Perhaps the Tamaea knew more than she thought.
He hesitated a moment more, staring into the Tamaea’s eyes, then said quietly, “To alliances then.”
The decision made, he felt as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders.
The Tamaea relaxed as well, her posture softening. “What news did the scout bring?” she repeated.
“He brought news that the human army—the Legion—has gathered on the border with over five thousand men, led by King Stephan. And approximately four days ago, they entered the plains, moving to intercept us.”
The Tamaea’s body froze, the only movement a slight widening of her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t even breathe.
Then she let out her breath in a low sigh, nearly a moan. “It’s the Escarpment all over again.”
Aeren frowned, taking a bit of meat from a skewer, chewing it thoughtfully. “Yes . . . and no.”
“What do you mean?” the Tamaea snapped. “All three races, coming together with armies at their backs, two of them under an ostensible agreement of peace—” She choked on her words, shook her head in frustration, turning to stare at the side of the tent. Aeren watched as tears glistened in her eyes, the only crack in the armor of rage she’d laid over herself. But no tears fell. She held them back, her entire body trembling with the effort.
Aeren let her grapple with the anger in silence, nibbling at his food. But he watched.
And sooner than expected, the hard edges of rage in her face softened, her eyes widening with dawning horror.
She turned to him and whispered, “What has Fedorem done? What has he planned?”
Aeren pushed his plate aside and looked at her. “I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he forged on. “None of the Evant knows, as far as I can discern.”
“Not even Khalaek?” The bitterness and hatred in her voice made him smile.
“Not even Khalaek.” He hesitated. “I believe Khalaek is playing his own game.”
“Khalaek is always playing his own game. What do you think it is this time?” When Aeren didn’t answer immediately, she asked, “Does it have anything to do with your human friend?”
Aeren felt his face go blank, unintentionally, a reaction learned on the floor of the Evant. “Yes and no.”
“You are too fond of that answer.”
Aeren smiled. “I have not shared this with any other Lords of the Evant, not even with the Tamaell. Mostly because neither Lotaern nor I know exactly what is happening. But it seems to be connected to Lord Khalaek.”
“Lotaern knows?”
“It has to do with the sarenavriell.”
The Tamaea’s eyebrows rose, but she nodded for him to continue.
And he did. He told her of the warning brought to him by Colin from the Faelehgre. He told her of Benedine and his research, of his meeting with one of Khalaek’s attendants, of his death. He told her of the awakening of the Wells and what little he knew of Colin’s powers. He told her everything, including Colin’s return to the forest to check up on the Faelehgre and their progress and that Colin had volunteered to return again when they’d halted unexpectedly today.
She accepted it all in silence, staring down at her hands. When he was done, she looked up, her eyes more troubled than before, somehow deeper and darker. “And you have not told the Tamaell?”
He shook his head with a frustrated snort and shrugged. “Lotaern has informed the Tamaell of the awakening of the sarenavriell and the reason for the attacks on the eastern Houses by the sukrael. As for the link between that and Khalaek . . . what is there to tell? We have no proof of anything. And then—” He cut himself off.
“And then what?” She stared at him in confusion, and in her eyes he saw sudden comprehension. “You think the Tamaell may be involved somehow.” The realization was followed immediately by anger. “Fedorem would never conspire with Khalaek—”
“Wouldn’t he? What happened at the Escarpment, then? Can you say without doubt that he did not conspire with Khalaek to bring about Maarten’s death?”
That brought the Tamaea up short. He could see her struggling with words, trying to come to her husband’s defense, to the Tamaell’s defense . . .
But in the end, she sagged with defeat. “No. I cannot say that without doubt.” Her voice hardened. “But I
do not
believe that Fedorem is conspiring with Khalaek. And especially not with the sukrael or these . . . these Wraiths. I
refuse
to believe it.”
do not
believe that Fedorem is conspiring with Khalaek. And especially not with the sukrael or these . . . these Wraiths. I
refuse
to believe it.”
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