Well of Sorrows (61 page)

“Did you call the Drifter?” the commander asked suddenly. “It’s said you can control the elements—the wind, the water, the very earth.”

Eraeth snorted and rolled his eyes.

“No,” Aeren said, ignoring his Protector. “We did not call the Drifter. As your scouts have probably already reported, the occumaen destroyed a large portion of our own camp and killed at least fifty Alvritshai. Another thirty are missing. Why would we call something so destructive and unleash it on ourselves?”

“Perhaps it got out of control,” the Legionnaire muttered. Aeren didn’t bother to respond, but he saw a fleeting expression of doubt cross the commander’s face.

Then he heard the pounding of the gaezels’ hooves as Thaedoren and the group of dwarren arrived. They banked away, then turned and swept past the group, curling around into a position the same distance from both Aeren’s and the Legion’s groups, all except Thaedoren, who rode up into position behind them on his horse. Thaedoren nodded at Aeren, his expression unreadable. He was obviously deferring to the dwarren.

Aeren was not surprised to find the dwarren led by Garius. The clan chief ’s nose and ear chains glinted in the sunlight, the beads woven into his beard clicking against each other as he nudged his gaezel out in front of the rest of his group. He’d brought six other dwarren with him, plus Thaedoren.

Garius glared at Aeren, then at the Legionnaire, before returning his gaze to Aeren. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked in dwarren. He motioned toward the two groups.

Aeren straightened in his saddle. “ The Tamaell of the Alvritshai, Fedorem Arl Resue, wishes to end the bloodshed on the plains. He proposes that all three leaders of the three races— King Stephan Werall, Cochen Harticur of the Red Sea Clan, and himself, along with a suitable escort—gather here, on this ground to discuss a treaty among our peoples.” Aeren waited while someone from each party translated from Alvritshai to their own language.

A silence settled, held for a long moment—

And then was broken by a harsh laugh from the Legionnaire. “You want to talk peace? After what happened here over thirty years ago?” His voice lowered dangerously. “You would dare suggest peace on
this
ground, at
this
place.”

“It is precisely because of what happened here, at this place thirty years ago that Tamaell Fedorem suggests we talk,” Aeren said. “A mistake was made, one that he wishes to rectify.”

“A mistake!”

Aeren winced at Garius’ deep-chested, enraged roar. The clan chief had edged his gaezel closer, and for the first time Aeren noticed that he brandished a sword, the weapon laid across his lap.

“A mistake!” Garius’ gaze was scathing. “You slaughtered us. You cut us down and then drove us off of the Escarpment. You call that a mistake? It was butchery!”

Behind him, Garius’ men grumbled, and Thaedoren shot Aeren a warning glance.

Waiting until the muttering had died down, Aeren looked directly at Garius and said, “No. That was not a mistake. That was planned.”

The outrage was instantaneous, the dwarren erupting in curses, swords raised for emphasis. Thaedoren stiffened in his saddle behind the group, his jaw set, his gaze black. But the dwarren didn’t move to attack; Garius hadn’t even raised his weapon.

Instead, he simply glared at Aeren past his lowered brow. “So you intend to speak the truth here as well?”

“Yes.”

Garius nodded.

“And was the betrayal of Maarten, our King, planned?” the Legionnaire demanded bitterly.

Aeren turned toward the commander, looked into his enraged eyes. He hesitated, but he realized he’d grown tired. Of the lies, the half-lies. Of veiled suspicions and secrets.

He drew in a deep breath, aware that Thaedoren stood to one side, aware that he’d already stepped over his bounds by admitting to the dwarren that there had been an alliance between the Alvritshai and the humans to the dwarren. But he no longer cared.

“The betrayal at the Escarpment was planned,” he said bluntly.

The commander jerked back as if he’d been struck, his eyes going wide in surprise, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Behind him, his men gasped or cried out, those not carrying the banners of truce edging their mounts forward. But they did not draw their weapons.

Because the commander hadn’t drawn his.

Aeren could see the rage, pent up for thirty years, feeding on suspicion, on his lord’s blatant hatred, fostered by the constant struggle on the borders among all of the races. His teeth ground together, and his breathing came harsh and ragged. The hand holding the hilt of his sword clenched and unclenched as he fought himself, the urge to draw and vent his rage on Aeren and the Alvritshai clear in his eyes, in the strained lines of his face.

Aeren didn’t know what held the commander’s hand, but in the end he calmed himself, enough to release his blade, enough to wave his men back, the gesture sharp, barely controlled. The muscles in his face contracted as he drew a short breath. “And yet you come here expecting us to discuss peace.”

“The betrayal was planned,” Aeren said, “but not by all of the Evant. I was not aware of it, nor was my brother, the Lord of House Rhyssal at the time. I know of at least two other lords who were dragged into it after your King had been killed.”

The Legionnaire snorted. “And what of Fedorem?” he spat. “What of your precious Tamaell? Was he aware?”

Aeren winced. “That is what the Tamaell wishes to discuss.”

“Ha!” The commander shook his head in disgust. He leaned forward in his saddle, leather creaking. “It matters little if the Tamaell was aware. He kept his mouth shut afterward, didn’t he? He became complicit the moment he allowed it to happen, the moment he allowed it to go unpunished.”

The commander took the reins of his horse in one hand, nudged his horse around, turning it back toward the human armies. “There will be no talks,” he said coldly. “We learned a harsh lesson here at the Escarpment thirty years ago, one we have not forgotten: The Alvritshai cannot be trusted.”

Then he turned his back on them all, motioning with one hand toward the others in his escort.

Aeren felt a moment of panic, even though he’d expected this response. He’d seen their resistance, their human stubbornness, in Corsair. He’d seen the hatred and pain that still lay on the surface, both there and in Portstown, in all the other cities he’d visited in the Provinces.

But circumstances had changed. The world had changed. The world was Turning.

“How goes the war with Andovan?” he asked loudly, before the Legionnaire and his men could move beyond earshot.

The commander halted, his back stiffening, his men pulling up short around him. One of them looking back with a glare.

Aeren edged his horse forward. “It doesn’t appear to be going well,” he said casually. “They’ve attacked nearly every port on your coast, in nearly every Province. We know that they’re hounding your shipping fleets, interrupting your trade, sinking what they cannot take. We were surprised you could send so many of the Legion here, especially since we weren’t posing an imminent threat at the time.”

The Legionnaire shifted slightly, so that Aeren could see his profile. But he did not turn around. “What is your point?” he said, voice still heated.

He knew the point. Aeren could hear it in his voice. He answered anyway.

“You can’t afford to have your forces divided. This conflict on the plains is useless and only distracts you from a more pressing threat: the Andovans. They’ve been distracted by their internal conflict these long years, by their Feud. But that’s ended. They have their sights set on their lost colonies, on their lost lands. And their attacks are escalating.

“You need this peace. You need it more than we do.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. The Alvritshai couldn’t afford to lose many more lives. There were fewer than eighty thousand Alvritshai left, when once there were two hundred thousand. And he knew the dwarren were in a similar situation. He’d seen the decrease in dwarren on the plains, although the dwarren would recover much more quickly than the Alvritshai. In that respect, the dwarren were like the humans.

But the attacks by the Andovans were more immediate and more pressing.

Aeren saw the commander frown, his chin dropping slightly.

Then he turned away again. But before he kicked his horse forward, he said bitterly, “I’ll inform King Stephan of your request.”

Aeren watched him and his escort gallop back across the plains to their ranks for a moment before turning to Garius.

The dwarren clan chief eyed Aeren shrewdly. He’d been listening to the conversation intently, and he now fingered the hilt of his sword as he stared Aeren down.

“You already know why we must talk of peace,” he finally said. Aeren nodded. “The sukrael.”

Garius glanced in the direction of the forest, too distant to actually see on the horizon. “The urannen.” His lip twitched as he said the name, and he spat to one side.

When he turned back, he said, “I will tell the Cochen of your talk.”

Then he spun his gaezel around, calling an order to the rest of the dwarren. Their gaezels leaped forward, leaving Thaedoren behind on his horse.

He cantered forward, to face Aeren. “You risk much for this peace.”

“I risk everything,” Aeren said darkly.

Thaedoren measured him with a glance, then nodded. “I’ll remain with the dwarren until the meeting can be arranged.”

“I’ll inform the Tamaell.”

Thaedoren pulled his horse around and charged out after the dwarren.

Aeren met Eraeth’s gaze.

“That could have gone better,” his Protector said blandly as they headed back toward the Tamaell and the rest of the Alvritshai army.

“It gives us a chance. Let’s hope the talk itself is less anger fueled.”

It wasn’t.

Aeren could already feel the tension radiating from the men, dwarren, and Alvritshai gathered about the tent that had been erected in the center of the battlefield. All of those assembled were glaring at the other two contingents, even as each party sent a single member into the tent to verify that everything had been set up as established during the two days of negotiations. The dwarren had demanded that their own meeting tent be used, but King Stephan had refused on the grounds that he was unfamiliar with their setup and layout. An argument had ensued, with Tamaell Fedorem finally offering the compromise that they use a human tent, with the stipulation that one of the dwarren shamans be allowed to sanctify it. Both sides had grudgingly agreed.

Then the question of how many men each leader would be allowed to bring with them into the tent. Tamaell Fedorem had requested fourteen, intending to bring the seven Lords of the Evant, with one aide each. The dwarren had immediately demanded twenty. Aeren suspected that the number itself didn’t matter to them, it only had to be higher than the Tamaell’s choice. Stephan had scoffed and said he would only need seven.

They’d finally agreed on ten additional men each.

After that, they’d argued about how the tent would be set up, how they’d verify that the tent was safe before the other leaders entered, how the guards would be positioned outside, what food and drink would be available, whether weapons would be allowed, and how many weapons each guard would be able to carry.

As soon as all of these matters were settled, the argument within the Evant began over who would accompany the Tamaell. The dwarren had demanded that both Thaedoren and Fedorem be present. Moiran had protested. Thaedoren was the Tamaell Presumptive—it made no sense to risk both Fedorem and Thaedoren at the meeting. Her voice had been quiet and controlled, but Aeren had heard the tremor beneath it, had seen the fear in her eyes. A mother’s fear. But Fedorem had overruled her. Daedalen, their second son, still remained in Alvritshai hands, ready to take Thaedoren’s and Fedorem’s place if something should happen to them both.

Moiran had pursed her lips, but she said nothing.

That left nine places to be filled. Some would have to be reserved for the Phalanx. Fedorem didn’t intend to enter the tent without some guardsmen. He allocated three places for his own personal guard, leaving six at the disposal of the Evant.

In the end, after nearly an entire day of exhausting discussion, of tirades and brittle conversation, of anger and heated words, it was decided that Aeren and Khalaek would accompany the Tamaell. Each would be allowed two others of their own chosing.

Aeren’s brow furrowed as he glanced toward Khalaek, the lord dressed in formal black and gold. He caught Aeren’s stare and held it . . . then smiled before turning away, back toward the two aides he’d chosen to bring along with him.

Eraeth leaned forward and murmured, “The one on the right is the man Benedine met with in the courtyard.”

Aeren faced Colin questioningly and received a nod in return.

He frowned, considering the man. He could see the training of the Phalanx in the way the man held himself. When he sensed Aeren’s attention, he looked over, met Aeren’s gaze, held it a long moment without moving, then returned to waiting, without a second look back.

Then the scouts—all three—emerged from the tent, giving an all-clear signal as they retreated back to their respective groups.