Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Both sides of the battle turned from the field. Aeren relaxed back into his saddle and watched as the Alvritshai moved wearily up the slope toward them, the Tamaell’s escort edging to the front ranks. The Legion withdrew to the north, where Aeren could make out their own encampment, untouched by the occumaen.

As the Tamaell’s escort approached, Aeren stepped forward, Eraeth at his side. The Tamaell sat in the saddle, back rigid, his armor coated with dust and blood, his face smeared with sweat and grit. He carried himself stiffly, yet with a deadly grace, the exhaustion from the day’s battle apparent only around the edges of his eyes and in the angry creases in his brow. All the men around him appeared the same-except Lord Khalaek-although their fatigue was easier to see in their slumped shoulders and hunched backs.

Fedorem saw Aeren’s approach and slowed. The army began to slow as well, until an order was passed back. The Phalanx-the Tamaell’s and the rest of the Houses of the Evant-began spilling around them toward the camp. Groans escaped most men as they saw the destruction the occumaen had caused, some of shock, others of worry.

Khalaek must have already informed Fedorem, for he didn’t react to the state of their camp at all. Instead, he scanned Aeren’s group and called, “Where is the Tamaea? Where is Moiran?”

“She is-” Aeren began.

“Here, my Tamaell.”

Aeren’s escort parted, and the Tamaea stepped through, her clothes stained with mud and grass, her hair in disarray. A smudge of dirt marked her forehead, as if she’d wiped at it with her arm.

She halted a step away from the Tamaell’s horse, and for a moment it appeared that Fedorem would not react. He sat, staring at her, his face unreadable, although Aeren thought he trembled.

Then he swung down from his mount and drew Moiran to him in a hard embrace. He murmured something to her, his face pressed into her hair, and tears shone in Moiran’s eyes as she hesitated and then held Fedorem in return, clutching his battered and bloody armor to her, uncaring.

Aeren and the rest of the escort that surrounded them shuffled and looked elsewhere. Such displays were not generally shown in public, especially not among those in the Evant.

They clung to each other a moment longer, until the Tamaell pushed Moiran back. The Tamaea regained her composure immediately and said, her voice rough, “It was the human, Colin, who saved me from the occumaen. I would not have survived otherwise.”

Surprise flashed across Fedorem’s face, replaced with a solemn expression as he searched among the Alvritshai faces. Not finding Colin, his gaze settled on Aeren. “Where is he? I wish to thank him personally.”

“He is with Lotaern and the acolytes, recovering. The Order has already begun tending to the wounded, at the Tamaea’s request.”

“I see. Then I will attend him later.” His stance shifted, and he stepped away from Moiran toward Aeren. “Lord Khalaek informs me you’ve come with a message from my son.”

“I have.”

“What is it?”

Aeren looked toward Khalaek and narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t tell the Tamaell about the sukrael, not with Khalaek standing there.

“Out with it!” Fedorem barked, startling everyone.

Aeren straightened where he sat and met the Tamaell’s angry, brooding gaze. “The Tamaell Presumptive has met and spoken with the dwarren Gathering, as you requested, and they’ve refused to deal with the Tamaell Presumptive.”

Khalaek snorted in derision, as if he’d expected no less.

But Aeren wasn’t finished.

“Instead, they wish to speak to you directly, Tamaell. They’re coming here, to the Escarpment. And they’re bringing their army with them.”

“I told him not to bring the Dwarren here!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.

He tried not to react as the Tamaell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the look Eraeth shot him from one side. Colin, seated on the other side, simply watched silently, not quite recovered from saving the Tamaea.

The Tamaell had controlled himself while they reached the tattered remains of the camp, had marshaled all of the Lords of the Evant into action to clean up and salvage what they could of the tents and supply wagons, over half of which were unscathed, including the wagon that Aeren had left with the contingent. He’d spent a long moment alone with the Tamaea before she took control of the medical teams tending to the wounded, paying close attention to those like the man who’d lost both legs to the occumaen and the woman who’d lost her arm. But during all of this, Aeren could tell the Tamaell had been fuming.

It had only been a matter of time. And privacy.

“I don’t believe the Tamaell Presumptive was given much choice,” Aeren ventured.

“Thaedoren and I discussed this at length. He was to meet with the dwarren, placate them, act humble or defiant, but he was to keep them away from the Escarpment! It should have been a simple task, after what happened to them the last time all three races met here!”

Aeren frowned. “It might have been simple, except for one thing.”

“What?” Fedorem growled, but it caught his attention. He stopped pacing, his black gaze leveled at Aeren.

“The sukrael.”

It surprised him. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “What do the sukrael have to do with this?”

Aeren shifted where he sat, aware of the Tamaell’s eyes boring into him. He felt Colin stir to one side.

“The Tamaell Presumptive-”

“Thaedoren,” Fedorem said gruffly. “Call him Thaedoren here.”

Aeren nodded, although it made him even more uncomfortable. “Thaedoren informed them of the attacks in Licaeta. It appears there have been similar attacks on the dwarren, to the south and the east in particular. These attacks are more serious than those in Licaeta, to the extent that the dwarren have been forced to turn their attention toward protecting themselves from the sukrael.”

Fedorem had bowed his head in thought. “So when you approached them with the possibility of peace-”

“It came at an auspicious time for them, yes.”

“So they actually intended to form some type of agreement with us? A treaty of some sort?”

Aeren nodded. “Yes.”

Fedorem continued pacing, mumbling to himself. “Thaedoren didn’t believe it. He thought it was a trick.”

Aeren thought about Thaedoren standing on the rise before the meeting tent, frowning down at the dwarren encampment in consternation. “I believe the dwarren convinced him otherwise.”

Fedorem drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a sigh, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do the dwarren know why the sukrael can suddenly move beyond their usual boundaries? Those boundaries have remained stable for generations, hundreds of years at least. Lotaern has told me of your claims that the sukrael have begun reawakening sarenavriell.”

Aeren felt sweat break out along his shoulders and in the palms of his hands. “The dwarren have no idea. They believe this may be a sign that the world is Turning. But what Lotaern told you was correct: the sukrael are reawakening the Wells.”

Fedorem nodded, as if he’d expected that answer.

Aeren hesitated, glancing once toward Colin; the human’s face was drained, leeched of color, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Then Aeren said, “However, there is something more that we have discovered about the sukrael and the sarenavriell.”