Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“I think,” the Tamaell Presumptive said, hesitating before turning to Aeren, tightening his hold on the reins of his mount, “I think the dwarren meant it when they requested this meeting.”

Aeren tried not to react to the look of surprise in the Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes. “They meant it. Do you think I would have asked the Tamaell to come here otherwise?”

Thaedoren didn’t respond, but his expression clearly said he thought Aeren had brought the Tamaell and the Evant out here for nothing. But he’d spent the last thirty years on the border, dealing with dwarren raids. As he turned away, steadying his horse, Aeren could see him reevaluating the situation, his gaze flickering over the meeting tent in the flat below and the dwarren that had amassed beyond.

Aeren shared a look with Eraeth on his other side, then turned back to face the dwarren. He didn’t know what Thaedoren had expected or what he’d intended to do, but the confusion on the young lord’s face gave him hope.

The dwarren had assembled on the far side of the flat as before, the blue-green cloth of the meeting tent ruffling in a slight wind. Banners had been set into the ground on the dwarren’s side, the long triangular pennants rippling, showing the symbols of the dwarren clans, one banner for each. Aeren presumed that the dwarren gathered behind each banner represented that particular clan. One of the banners stood higher than the others, in the center-Harticur’s banner, the head of all of the clans, called the Cochen. He could see the clan chiefs and their escorts gathered at the front of each group, all on gaezels, waiting. Harticur sat with four Riders, each of the other chiefs with two. The sun blazed down, glinting on dwarren armor and armbands, although it couldn’t warm the winter-chilled air.

In the far distance, one of the plains storms rolled southward. Aeren could hear the distant thunder.

“What are they waiting for?” Thaedoren asked. He fidgeted in his seat, jerking the reins yet again.

Aeren drew breath to answer, but one of the dwarren suddenly stepped from between the gathered ranks and marched out into the flat, carrying a feathered and beaded spear. “That,” Aeren said.

“Who is it?”

“One of their shaman. He’ll bring everyone to the tents, including us, once he feels it is safe.”

Thaedoren’s brow creased in irritation, jaw tightening, but he said nothing and simply watched.

The shaman circled the meeting tent once, and then again. He stopped at each of the four entrances, chanted and gestured with his spear, then flung something into the wind with a strangely familiar gesture, one that Aeren didn’t recognize until Eraeth grunted and said in surprise, “He’s sowing seeds.”

After a lengthy pause, the shaman staring out at the passing storm to the east, he nodded as if satisfied, even though his ancient face was set into a black frown. In a strangely informal motion, he gestured for the clan chiefs to approach.

The gaezels leaped forward, Harticur in the lead, the other clan chiefs falling in behind, a huge cry rising from the rest of the dwarren as they sped past the banners, circling around the tent as the cries from the dwarren increased. The shaman watched in silence, although Aeren would have sworn he saw the old man roll his eyes in disgust, and then Harticur and the rest brought their gaezels to a halt in a small group before him, dismounting as the dwarren shouts trailed off.

Harticur approached the shaman, the other clan chiefs and Riders hanging back. Aeren picked out Garius, noticed that one of his Riders was his son, Shea. He didn’t recognize any of the other clan chiefs, but he’d never met with any of them personally. Garius ruled the lands closest to the Alvritshai and human borders; he was the only dwarren Aeren had ever dealt with. He’d only heard of Harticur.

Harticur bowed his head, and the shaman placed one hand on it in a strangely formal and somehow powerful gesture. Aeren could feel it. He couldn’t tell if any words were spoken, but Harticur looked up when the shaman removed his hand, and the shaman nodded.

Harticur stalked forward, the others following, and entered the tents, their pace subdued compared to the dramatic ride around the tents. They left their gaezels on the flat, a few of the Riders staying behind to watch over them.

When all the dwarren had entered the meeting tent behind Harticur, the shaman turned toward the Alvritshai gathered on the rise and motioned them forward.

Thaedoren’s shoulders tensed, and his horse sidestepped, picking up on his unease. Aeren felt his own stomach clench in apprehension.

“Let’s get this over with,” Thaedoren said, and nudged his horse forward.

“Not the best attitude,” Eraeth muttered, low enough only Aeren could hear, as he and Aeren started forward on their own mounts. The rest of the Alvritshai escort followed suit.

The Alvritshai didn’t circle the tent with their horses. Instead, they approached the shaman without a sound except the jangle of harness, the creak of leather, and the snorting of the animals. Thaedoren halted twenty paces from the shaman, and even though, mounted, the Alvritshai loomed over the much smaller dwarren, he stared up at them without a trace of fear. Thaedoren met the shaman’s eyes with a challenge, his posture edged in contempt, but when the shaman merely straightened, his expression hardening, Thaedoren relaxed and nodded with a hint of respect.

“Well met,” the Tamaell Presumptive said formally in dwarren. “I am Thaedoren Ormae Resue, Tamaell Presumptive of the Alvritshai. I have come to speak to the Gathering, on behalf of my father, the Tamaell Fedorem Arl Resue.”

The shaman registered brief surprise at his use of dwarren, but he recovered quickly, eyes narrowing as if he thought Thaedoren had offered some sort of verbal challenge with the gesture. “Harticur, Chief of the Red Sea Clan and Cochen of this Gathering, welcomes you.” Then, in the silence that followed, the shaman gave all those in the group a hard look, met each with his own eyes and held the gaze, passing swiftly from person to person.

When his gaze fell on Aeren, the lord felt something deep inside him shiver, for the shaman’s eyes were depthless and cold and powerful. He found he couldn’t look away, and he drew in a sharp breath and held it. For a moment, the shaman’s expression seemed strained, the wrinkles around his eyes tightening And then he let Aeren go, turning to look at Eraeth, before finally returning to Thaedoren. Aeren gasped, uncertain exactly what had happened. He wasn’t given time to think about it.

“Harticur waits for you inside the meeting hall,” the shaman said gruffly. “Enter.”

He motioned abruptly with the spear, as if he’d asked them to enter ages ago and didn’t understand why they hadn’t moved yet. Thaedoren dismounted, although Aeren saw him hesitate, as if he’d taken offense and had considered ending the meeting right there. As soon as he started moving, Aeren followed suit.

They left the horses with two Phalanx and entered the shade of the tent, the wind ruffling the edges of the entrance. Aeren could smell the dampness of the distant storm in the gust, bitter with cold, tasting like metal.

Then he ducked through the interior entrance behind Thaedoren, stepping into the meeting room. The seven dwarren clan chiefs and their escorts-two dwarren each-were already seated on the pillows around the large table. The hint of the winter storm was subsumed by the sweet incense of the dwarren lanterns, the interior already cloudy with drifting smoke. The room was warm but not yet stifling. Thaedoren had halted just inside the entrance, but before Aeren could adjust his breathing enough to speak, the Tamaell Presumptive moved stiffly forward and sat on the empty cushions near the entrance.