Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

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.”

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.”

“He wants to rule the Alvritshai,” Aeren countered.

“Is there a difference?”

Aeren didn’t answer. “What do you think the Tamaell will do about the Legion?”

It was not a question he would normally have asked the Tamaea. She was not a lord, was not part of the Evant. But the fact that she had called him here, the fact that she understood immediately what the presence of the Legion meant…

She watched him silently for a long moment, but he could not read her expression. All of her thoughts were hidden.

Like a lord.

“I think,” she said, then paused, drawing in a deep breath, letting it out with a weary sigh. “I think he cannot afford to ignore the presence of the Legion.”

Aeren nodded and found himself regarding the Tamaea with new eyes. “He can’t,” he said, and shifted so he could rise, gathering himself to depart. The Tamaea did not stop him. “He won’t.”

“Then we are headed toward war. Again.”

Aeren felt a flare of anger. “It would appear so.” He turned toward the tent’s opening.

“What about the dwarren? Will he still seek out the dwarren?”

Aeren paused, one hand on the soft material of the flap, holding it back.

In the corridor outside, he saw a flicker of movement, a blurred shadow, nothing more.

He flung the flap back completely, his heart pounding in his chest, his hand falling to the hilt of his cattan, the tent shaking with the force of his movement.

“What is it?” the Tamaea gasped behind him, surging to her feet.

Aeren ignored her, didn’t even turn. He scanned the narrow corridor beyond, the folds of cloth undulating in the light and shadows thrown by the lanterns of the room where they’d dined. But he saw nothing, no figures, no shapes. Nothing.

“Shaeveran?” he asked. His voice cracked with tension.

The Tamaea moved up behind him, stared out into the darkness of the tent around him.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I saw…”

“What?”

“A shadow,” he said, forcing himself to release the grip on his sheathed blade. He turned to give the Tamaea a reassuring smile but was startled to find her holding a thin knife defensively in one hand. Not one of the knives from the table. This was a fighting knife, one used for close personal combat.

He caught her gaze and saw the challenge in her eyes. She wanted him to ask about the knife, a weapon that no one would expect the Tamaea to possess, let alone know how to use.

Instead, he repeated, “It must have been a shadow.”

Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she nodded. “Very well.” Aeren found himself reassessing her yet again. She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push him either, moving away from the entrance of the tent. She set the thin blade on the edge of the table containing the remains of their meal. “Let us hope that when it comes to the Legion-and King Stephan-that the Tamaell acts with… discretion.”

Rising from his kneeling position, Aeren said, “Yes. Let’s hope.”

It was not a hope he believed in.

Two days later, Aeren and Eraeth were interrupted by the approach of one of the Tamaell’s pages. He halted a respectful distance away after catching their attention.

Aeren felt his chest tighten. “It appears the Tamaell has finally made a decision,” he murmured, low enough so only Eraeth could hear.

Eraeth grunted as Aeren motioned the page forward.

“The Tamaell requests your presence,” the page said with a short but precise bow of his head and shoulders, then added, “immediately.”

Aeren shared a look with Eraeth, and the bands around his chest tightened further. “Gather an escort, Protector. No more than four.”

Aeren and his escort halted outside of the council tent less than an hour later as the sun began its descent to the west. There, black clouds could be seen, the tattered fringes scudding toward the encampment. On all sides of the Tamaell’s tents, men were hustling to break down and pack away supplies, their actions frantic, and Aeren heard word being spread that the army would head out again within the hour. Servants were cursing, members of the Phalanx as well as they stumbled over them in their own preparations.