Well of Sorrows (89 page)
Authors: Benjamin Tate
When Colin woke the first time, he never opened his eyes.
He could sense someone leaning over him. And then, as if through a dense fog, he heard someone say, “Will he survive?”
He recognized Stephan’s voice, could feel the King withdraw slightly.
“He should never have survived the knife to his chest,” Aeren answered. “I don’t understand how he had enough strength to take you to the battle thirty years ago. But yes, we think he will survive.”
A long silence. “Who is he?”
Someone snorted, and Colin smiled. Eraeth. He could imagine Aeren’s glare.
“He came from Portstown.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That’s all I can say,” Aeren answered. “Other than to say that he is Rhyssal-aein, a friend.”
“He’s more,” Eraeth said gruffly. “More than Rhyssal-aein. He is a member of the House. He is Colin Harten, Colin Shaeveran. He is touched by Aielan and touched by shadow.”
A significant pause, and then Aeren said, “Indeed.”
Colin heard movement, people shifting. Stephan sighed. “I suppose we should start the talks without him then. I’d hoped he would have recovered by now.”
“The wound was deep,” Aeren answered carefully. “Deeper than perhaps we know.”
“Then let him rest,” Stephan said, his voice already retreating. Colin listened as Aeren and Eraeth followed. “We’ll begin at midday, on the field. Is everything prepared?”
“I believe so . . .”
And then the voices faded, and Colin faded with them.
When he woke the second time, he opened his eyes to find Moiran and Aeren talking quietly on one side. He listened to the soft murmur of their words, not trying to understand, simply staring up at the undulating canvas of the tent above. The room was lit with a soft lamp, shadows flickering on the walls.
He stirred, his stomach growling, and the conversation halted.
Moiran appeared first, frowning down at him, Aeren a moment later, both concerned.
“How do you feel?” Moiran asked. It took a moment for Colin to piece together the Alvritshai.
“Hungry,” Colin rasped, his voice sticking in his throat. He coughed, winced at the pain. He dug his chin into his chest, trying to see the bandage that bound him. He picked at it, Moiran gently slapping his hand away.
“Leave it,” she said, then glanced toward Aeren. “Watch him while I go find something for him to eat.”
As soon as Moiran left, Colin asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“Ten days.”
Colin sighed, raised his left arm to scrub at his face, but paused.
The black mark, what had begun as only a freckle on the inside of his wrist, had now spread to his entire arm, the darkness swirling and eddying beneath his skin like a living tattoo.
He stared at it a long moment, the same dread that had seized him in the forest deep in his stomach . . . and then he let his arm drop.
“Is that the price you paid?” Aeren asked. “Is that what it cost to take Stephan back to the first battle to witness his father’s death?”
Colin couldn’t look at Aeren as he answered. “Yes.”
He expected Aeren to protest, to say the cost was too high, that they would have found another way.
Instead, the lord said, “Then the Evant and all of the Alvritshai thank you.”
Colin turned, met Aeren’s gaze directly, and in his eyes he saw what Aeren could not say, saw the gratitude that could not be expressed in words.
Shifting uncomfortably, he asked, “What happened?” then began struggling up into a seated position. Aeren frowned but helped him, propping pillows up behind him. His chest ached—his entire body ached—but not to the extent it had immediately after the fight in the tent with Walter.
“Stephan has asked for an accord, a treaty among all three races. We’ve been discussing the terms for the last eight days, after seeing to our wounded and burning the dead, including Tamaell Fedorem. Thaedoren has met with the dwarren shamans and chiefs and made a formal apology for desecrating the Lands. He has pledged the Event and the Alvritshai to the preservation of the Lands, as they requested, which is the main reason the dwarren are talking at all. I was there. It was . . . an interesting ceremony. And I believe Thaedoren actually intends to enforce the pledge.” He sat back, having gotten Colin settled. “Stephan would have waited longer to start the talks—he wanted you to be there—but we convinced him that you needed time to recover.”
“Why would he want me there?”
“Perhaps because of what you did. But also, I think, because of what happened in the parley tent with Fedorem. He wanted you there in case the Wraith returned.” He held Colin’s gaze a long moment. “Could the Wraith return? Or is it dead?”
Colin thought about Walter, about the wound he’d inflicted, about the fact that Walter had drunk from the Well in the forest, and grimaced. “He’s not dead. He’s like me. He’ll heal.”
“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.
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