Well of Sorrows (70 page)

23

ON’T LET GO,” COLIN SAID.

The tenor of Colin’s voice brought Stephan to a halt, his instinctive response to pull away from the hand that held him in a viselike grip, even as the world around them shuddered, slowed, then halted. Colin watched Stephan’s face intently, saw the man lurch as he enveloped him with the Lifeblood. It was easier to pull Stephan back with the Lifeblood flowing so cleanly, so recently, through his body. There was no wrench as there had been with Moiran as they fled the occumaen, no anchor trying to hold him in place, as with Aeren and Thaedoren in the parley tent.

But the transition wasn’t completely smooth either. Stephan gasped, his eyes going wild, darting around, seeing the entire battle in mid-motion, a battle he’d been part of only a moment before, adrenaline racing through his blood.

His gaze fell on Tanner Dain, his commander already leaning forward, foot poised to take a step in Colin’s direction, expression caught in transition, hardening into rage.

He turned to Colin. His terror had died. He’d already begun collecting himself. “What have you done?”

“I’ve halted time.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something you need to see.”

“And what if I don’t want to see it?”

Colin shrugged. “I can’t force you to go, can’t force you to watch. All you have to do is break contact with me, free yourself from my grip, and you’ll return.”

Stephan’s mouth twitched into a sneer. “What is it that you think I need to see?”

Colin looked into his eyes, into the derision he saw reflected there, and said, “Your father.”

The sneer faltered, a look of horror, of hope filling the void that it left. For a startling moment that felt like eternity, Stephan lay exposed, the mask of rage and hatred and despair that he’d worn for the past thirty years gone, torn away, the man beneath—the boy who’d been transformed on these fields, who’d been murdered by Khalaek and the Alvritshai just as his father had been—peering through, vulnerable and young.

But then the mask slammed back into place, rage twisting Stephan’s face. “My father is dead,” he growled, then tensed to break free.

“He’s dead, but you can still see him. You can see how he died. You can see what really happened, who really killed him.”

“I’ve already seen how he died. I was there! I saw it with my own eyes!” He began pulling away from Colin, struggling, although half-heartedly. Perhaps he’d grown weary from the fight. He made no move to shift his sword to his free hand, to threaten Colin with it when it was obvious Colin himself held no weapon.

“But you saw it at a distance,” Colin said. “You don’t know what really happened. You’ve lived the last thirty years not knowing the truth, told one thing and another, until not even those who were there know what they saw and what they’ve learned to see, what they came to see based on rumor, not on fact.” Colin’s voice had deepened as Stephan’s struggles increased, his teeth clamped together. But Stephan suddenly let out a harsh cry and stopped trying to shake his arm free.

They glared at each other, both breathing hard.

“I can show you what truly happened,” Colin said, voice hoarse. “I can show you who turned against your father first, who followed and who didn’t.”

Stephan still didn’t believe him. Colin could see it in his tortured expression, as he squeezed his eyes shut and bent his head, his shoulders.

He remained in that bowed position a long moment, mostly still, jaw clenched.

When he lifted his head, he’d calmed himself, although his eyes shone with hatred. “How? I’ve been told a hundred stories, heard a thousand songs. How can you show me the truth?”

Something deep inside Colin relaxed. “I can take you there.” He reached out with the Lifeblood, still pulsing through him, still strong, and then he pushed. Pushed against time. Not halting it, not slowing it. No. Those were simpler tasks. Instead—as he’d done so many times before on the outskirts of the forest, where his mother and father and the rest of the wagon train had stood and faced the Shadows—he pushed back, pushed through the barrier and against the force trying to shove him into his proper place in time’s flow.

Stephan sucked in a sharp breath as the figures around him began to move, edging backward, swords pulling out of punctured chests, unslicing throats, uncutting arms and legs. Colin saw the image of Stephan himself, howling in reverse, but before the real Stephan could turn and see himself Colin concentrated and shoved, the reversal picking up speed, until all motion was smeared, then blurred, and yet still he pushed harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and Stephan took an unconscious step closer to him as time slid back even faster. The armies retreated, the sun set in the east, rose in the west, the field suddenly enveloped again in warfare, until they retreated again, the parley tent popping up from its collapse. Colin saw his body being carried in Eraeth’s arms as the Protector raced backward into the tent, caught a glimpse of Eraeth’s stricken face a moment before he vanished back inside. He staggered, surprised by that glimpse—

And in that moment, as the reversal of time lurched and slowed, he saw how the Wraith—how Walter—had gotten into the tent without being seen.

Khalaek’s men had held the tent flaps aside.

In a flash, he recalled seeing Khalaek’s aide standing beside the inside flap. A second had stood outside, guarding the tent with the others.

It would only have taken a simple signal—a whistle, a hummed refrain. Both men could lift the flap at the same moment, keep it open only a moment. With time slowed, or halted, Walter wouldn’t even need a single breath to slip inside, wouldn’t have even needed to appear at all with the tent flaps already pushed aside—

And even as he thought it, Walter flickered into view, ducked down between the opening and into the darkness within.

All to bring about the Tamaell’s death. Thaedoren’s as well. All so that Khalaek could ascend in the Evant, seize control and become Tamaell himself. An assassination within Caercaern would have been harder to manipulate, harder to explain. There would be no one to blame except an Alvritshai.

But here, on the battlefield, with an assassin so obviously human if he was seen at all . . .

Colin felt his rage boiling higher, his breath quickening, his heart thundering. He wanted to reach out and kill Walter as he slid into that darkness, wanted to strangle him—

But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the real Walter, the real Wraith. This was the Walter that was. This Walter couldn’t be stopped. He’d already assassinated the Tamaell, nearly killed the Tamaell Presumptive and Aeren as well. This Wraith had already set Lord Khalaek’s plans in motion.

But neither Khalaek nor Walter had planned on Colin.

He’d stopped the Tamaell Presumptive’s death and had implicated Khalaek in Fedorem’s death.

Now he intended to halt the conflict with Stephan. Straightening with purpose, he caught Stephan staring at him in confusion. His gaze flicked toward the tent flap, toward where Walter had vanished. “Who was that?”

“The man who killed the Tamaell.”

“I don’t know him. He wasn’t part of the Legion, he wasn’t one of my men.”

“I know, and the Tamaell Presumptive knows, but they don’t.” He motioned toward the Alvritshai army grimly. “The White Phalanx within the tent saw a human kill their ruler. And what one member of the army sees—”

“They all see,” Stephan finished curtly. His gaze rested on the Alvritshai banners. “They all think the Legion is behind the Tamaell’s death.”

“Not all. The lords of the Evant thought so at first, as did the Tamaell Presumptive. I showed them that one of the lords himself was behind the attack. The man you saw entering the tent . . . is like me. He’s tasted the sarenavriell, drunk from the Well of Sorrows. He’s no longer human.”

“One of the Lords of the Evant?” Stephan asked. His nostrils flared, chin lifting.

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

Colin hesitated. “Lord Khalaek.”

Stephan’s eyes narrowed. “The lord inside the tent. The one who rushed to attack.”

“Yes.”

Colin allowed Stephan a moment to absorb the information, saw it settling into place in Stephan’s mind. He relaxed his grip on the King’s arm, no longer afraid Stephan would bolt at the first opportunity.

But he couldn’t wait long. He could feel the power of the Lifeblood draining from him, absorbed by the effort it took to hold them here, in this moment. He still had to push them back thirty years, back to the first battle here at the Escarpment, back to where all of this had begun, at least for Stephan.

So as soon as he saw Stephan’s gaze shift from internal thoughts to him, he shoved hard.

They leaped backward, the world blurring, moving so fast that Colin could only catch glimpses of images as they passed. Most were of the flat, sometimes sunlit, the sky wide and open, sometimes black as pitch, the night sky clouded over. He saw suns set and rise, stars glitter, seasons pass. The moon flickered, full and gibbous, a sickle, new, all at different positions in the sky. Snow blanketed the flat, a rarity, although becoming more common; grass waved in gusty winds, yellow one instant, young green the next; a herd of gaezels grazed, then scattered; rain poured down in sheets as blue-purple lightning scored the heavens.

And then Colin caught the first glimpses of the aftermath of a battle: columns of smoke for the dead, flocks of carrion birds so thick they darkened the sky.

He eased up on the flow of time, the blur settling down to a smear. The black smoke vanished, the dead rose, sunlight poured down to glitter on spears, on swords, on armor and banners, pennants and flags. It bathed the horses and men of three armies, fell on a dusty expanse of flat land at the edge of the Escarpment, the deadly cliffs plummeting to the west.

The armies were positioned differently from the current battle. The Legion, led by King Maarten, by the Governors of the Provinces, a young Stephan—not yet eighteen years of age—among the ranks, held the south. They were already lined up in groups of forty, spread out, reserves fidgeting in the back and on the eastern flank, all of them facing the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the other House Phalanx to the north, on the far side of the flat. Colin could see the now familiar banners of the Houses of the Evant, could pick them out against the clear sky as the summer sun rose. He could feel the heat, could smell the grass, not yet trampled into the earth by thousands of gaezels.

With a start, he realized that he and Stephan stood on the field in the same position where Stephan had been battling the Alvritshai when Colin had stolen him away. But here, in this time, it was where the dwarren would be arriving at any moment. “We need to move,” he said.

“Why?” Stephan murmured. His eyes were locked on his own forces to the south, were centered on the highest banners.

On his father.

His expression was profound, yet unreadable, too full of scattered emotions.

“Because we’re standing where the dwarren Riders will be in another ten minutes.”

Stephan looked at him, and at the same moment the sound of more than a thousand gaezels thundered out of the distance as the dwarren force rose over a far-off ridge.

“Move,” Stephan said, and began to run. South, toward his own ranks.

Colin was dragged along behind. He knew they couldn’t be trampled by the gaezels, but he’d already been in the midst of one of their stampedes and didn’t want to experience that again. Heart bursting, he stumbled after the King, his shorter legs threatening to give out beneath him as he tried to keep up with Stephan’s pace, the sound of the dwarren’s approach rising behind them.

Then the roar of the gaezels shifted. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them swerve, banking away from the Alvritshai to the north, arcing around toward the Legion to the south, toward Stephan and Colin’s position. But Colin had seen the dwarren perform this maneuver before, and he knew that the arc wouldn’t reach them, would cut in sharply at the edge as they regrouped and re-formed, so he slowed, dragging Stephan back with him.

They watched as the dwarren reassembled, the thunder of their passage dying down, their drums silent. Their line was curved, facing both the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the Legion.

Colored flags began waving among the Legion, men readying, shouts rising into the stillness. Horns blew from the Alvritshai line. Tensions grew, almost tangible, roiling on the air between the three armies.

And then a signal was passed. Colin didn’t see it—they were too distant—but he felt it on the air, felt it shift.

The Legion charged with a hoarse battle cry, the Alvritshai as well, the dwarren surging forward on their gaezels as their drums began pounding. Stephan took a step forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, as if he yearned to join the battle, as if the battle cry had pulled him forward, but Colin held him in check.

“I remember this,” he said, his eyes darting over the field. The Legion and Phalanx were rushing toward each other, the dwarren coming in from the side—

But then the human and Alvritshai ranks pivoted. Instead of heading directly toward each other, those nearest the cliffs of the Escarpment began turning inward, those closest to the dwarren slowing down, until the two forces merged . . . and fell upon the dwarren.