Well of Sorrows

by Joshua Palmatier

  “I’ve had Thaedoren transferred back to Caercaern,” Fedorem had said from behind her, and she’d heard the disapproval in his voice over her display of emotion. “This meeting of the Evant is too important for him to miss.”

  She could sense Thaedoren’s confusion. What had been merely a strained relationship between father and son, due to disagreements on how to control the Evant, had degenerated into public vocal arguments after the Escarpment. Thaedoren had always been more forthright than his father. And more honorable. He’d viewed the betrayal of the human King as a stain upon the Resue House, upon the Alvritshai in general. Fedorem had ordered him to the border with the Phalanx. Thaedoren had been more than willing to leave and had taken his brother, Daedelan, with him.

  It was one of the issues that had driven a wedge between Moiran and Fedorem in those years following his return from the battle. His actions within the Evant, with Khalaek, had done the rest.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she’d said, her voice calm, with no trace of the roil of emotion—elation, hope, and fear—she felt inside. Why had he recalled Thaedoren? Why now? Fedorem must have a reason. He did nothing without purpose.

  She still had no answers when, a day later, Fedorem had requested her presence at the Evant. The request had prompted more questions, and now, a week onto the plains, with two days lost to one of the violent, unnatural storms slowing their progress, she still had no answers. Fedorem remained stubbornly silent, barely speaking to her when the army halted for the night. He spoke to Thaedoren, the two retreating to Fedorem’s tents.

  The sudden change . . . troubled her. His actions were too close to those he’d taken before the Escarpment.

  Moiran shifted in her saddle. Her horse snorted, picking up on her unease, and she quieted it by stroking its neck. To the side, one of her attendants looked at her with a questioning frown, but she shook her head, her brow creasing in irritation.

  Ahead, one of the attendants surrounding Fedorem suddenly cried out in warning. Instantly, Fedorem was surrounded by the White Phalanx. The lords leaped into defensive positions, all of them facing west. The Phalanx set to guard Moiran reacted as well, closing up around her and her attendant, a few more taking charge of the wagon behind her.

  Moiran ignored them and rose slightly in her saddle as the column ground to a halt, commands and warnings shouted down the line. She raised one hand to shade her eyes, shivering as the chill wind snuck down through the nape of her shirt.

  “What is it?” her attendant asked, bringing her mount up close to Moiran’s. Her tone was breathless with fear, yet tinged with excitement.

  “I can’t see—” Moiran cut off as someone on horseback charged up over a distant ridge. They were moving fast, and as they drew near, Moiran could see the lather on the horse’s sides. “It’s a rider, coming in fast.”

  A horn blew from Fedorem’s position, and everyone relaxed, Moiran’s attendant heaving a sigh of relief.

  “It’s one of our scouts,” the closest Phalanx muttered. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “He wouldn’t have pushed his horse so hard if there were nothing to worry about,” Moiran said without turning.

  The guardsman and her attendant frowned at each other.

  The scout pulled up sharply in front of the lords and their forest of banners, then literally fell from his horse. A few of those nearest cried out. Lord Aeren and Lord Jydell dismounted and rushed to the scout’s side, helping him to rise. As they did so, the horse the scout had ridden heaved a shuddering sigh and collapsed to its knees, its tongue protruding from its mouth. Someone rushed toward it with a pail of water, but before it could drink, it leaned drunkenly to one side and fell.

  Moiran’s attendant gasped again and whispered, “What happened?”

  Moiran looked at her. “He rode the horse to death.” She couldn’t keep the condescension from her voice, and the girl winced.

  More men rushed to the horse, but Moiran kept her eyes on the scout. With Lord Aeren’s help, Jydell trailing behind, he staggered toward where Moiran could see Fedorem through the crowd of bodies. She swore as she lost sight of the scout and Fedorem altogether.

  She glanced at the Phalanx guard, considered ordering him to go find out what had happened, then shrugged the thought aside with disgust. He wouldn’t leave his post, not even at an order from the Tamaea.

  The group surrounding Fedorem suddenly grew agitated, and she heard the Tamaell bellow, “Quiet!” The voices fell into low murmurs, but they still shifted back and forth.

  The strain in the air was palpable, and Moiran edged her horse farther forward, trying to hear something—anything—to catch a glimpse of the scout, of Fedorem, of—

  Her Phalanx bodyguard sidled his mount in front of her, cutting her off. She gave him a dark look and drew breath to berate him, but he said coldly, “Whatever it is, it’s obviously the business of the Evant, not the Tamaea.”

  She could have insisted that it didn’t matter, that Fedorem would tell her, or Thaedoren, or that her role as head of the Ilvaeran and the steward of the House gave her the right to know, but she choked the words back. Because they would have been a lie. The Ilvaeran—commonly called the Lady’s Evant—might control the economic resources of each of the Houses, but it had little to do with the current meeting with the dwarren. And before the Escarpment, Fedorem had told her everything, or nearly everything. But since then . . .

  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 on 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 worr y 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 I, nor Lotaern, knows 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.
<
br />   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.”

  She said it with such vehemence that Aeren felt himself relaxing. He hadn’t known how the Tamaea would react to the implied deceit.

  “Even if Fedorem isn’t dealing with the Wraiths, Khalaek is. And neither Lotaern nor I have any idea why.”

  The Tamaea pursed her lips in thought. “Everything Khalaek has done since he ascended in his House has been to bring him closer to the Tamaell. He wants to rule the Evant.”