Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Fedorem turned toward him with a questioning look.

“It has to do with the Wraiths, the creatures created by the sukrael. And with Lord Khalaek.”

And he told the Tamaell all that he’d told Thaedoren and had learned from the dwarren in turn. He told him of Colin’s powers, of Benedine, of how Colin had followed Benedine as he’d met with one of Khalaek’s aides, how that aide had reported back to Khalaek, and Benedine’s subsequent horrific death by the Wraith.

Fedorem remained silent the entire time he spoke, nodding or grimacing, but never once looking at Aeren, Colin, or Eraeth.

When Aeren finished, he said stiffly, “And you did not feel the need to inform me or the Evant of your suspicions regarding Khalaek?”

“As I told Thaedoren, I have mere suspicions, no proof. The Lords of the Evant would not accept the word of a human, not with the power that Khalaek wields.”

Fedorem nodded, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment of the explanation, Aeren couldn’t tell. Then the Tamaell turned to Colin.

“It seems the Alvritshai-that I-am in your debt,” he said, in perfect, uninflected Andovan. “The Tamaea explained that without your intervention, the occumaen would have claimed her.”

Colin seemed taken aback, although it was hard to tell through his exhaustion. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Finally, in a rough, weary voice, he managed to say, “There is no debt, Tamaell.”

“So you say, but what you have done will not be forgotten.” Fedorem drew breath, as if he’d say more, but then turned toward Aeren instead. “When do you expect my son and the dwarren to arrive?”

Aeren could hear the change in the Tamaell’s voice-a shift toward action, the discussion nearly over. “No more than two days from now. The dwarren are moving fast. The clan chiefs agreed to march ahead of the supply wagons, so the army will be arriving first, with the entire Gathering, and Thaedoren as escort.”

“Then we have little time to prepare,” Fedorem said, motioning for Aeren and the others to rise. “Wait here for a moment while I change.”

Aeren and Eraeth exchanged a glance as the Tamaell ducked back into the room beyond. “That went better than I expected,” Aeren said.

“It isn’t over yet,” Eraeth muttered.

Aeren frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

Colin wavered where he stood, and Aeren reached out to steady him. “You look pale.”

Colin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”

“Then rest. As soon as we leave the tent. The Tamaell and I will not need you.”

Colin nodded.

And then Fedorem returned, dressed now in the formal white and red of the Tamaell.

“Where are we going?” Aeren asked as Fedorem led them out of the tent, into the section of the camp that had not been torn apart by the occumaen.

“I want to speak to Lotaern about the sukrael and the sarenavriell,” the Tamaell said tightly.

“You should have come forward with this information,” the Tamaell said.

Aeren, Eraeth, the Tamaell, and Lotaern stood outside one of Lotaern’s tents as he watched the members of his Order picking through the debris left by the occumaen by torch and lantern light. Darkness had fallen, but the camp was still full of movement, fires scattered to either side of the occumaen’s path. A much larger blaze burned to the south, where the dead had been taken to be honored, blessed, and burned in order to return their souls to Aielan’s Light under the direction of the Order of the Flame’s acolytes. The black, oily smoke blotted out the stars as it drifted south, carried away from the camp by the faint breeze.

“And you would have listened?” Lotaern growled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his body turned slightly away from the Tamaell. “Listened to the word of a human, brought to you by one of the lords of the Evant, a known rival of Lord Khalaek?”

Aeren stiffened at the tension he felt between the two-Lotaern and the Tamaell-but forced himself to relax. The leader of the Order and the ruler of the Alvritshai had opposed each other since Fedorem had ascended within the Evant. Lotaern wanted more power, for himself and for the Order. Fedorem felt the Order had no place in the Evant. The argument was old and had lasted for decades.

“I would have listened to the Chosen of the Order!” Fedorem spat. “Especially regarding the sarenavriell and the sukrael. You are the holder of the Scripts. This is your domain.”

For the first time since they’d arrived, Lotaern turned and faced the Tamaell directly, one eyebrow raised. “The sarenavriell, the ruanavriell-all of the five powers-are under the mantle of Aielan’s Light and as such are the Order’s concern, not the Evant’s. Unless I have reason to believe they will somehow affect the Alvritshai directly, there is no need for me to report to you.”

“The Order does not consider the involvement of one of the Lords of the Evant a direct assault on the Alvritshai?”

Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I did not realize until recently that Lord Khalaek was involved,” he hissed. “If I had known…”

He trailed off in furious indignation.

The Tamaell straightened. “And what of these men?” Fedorem demanded, motioning toward the members of the Order working to clean up the damage done by the occumaen. “This Order of the Flame? The creation of an army within the Order, trained in secret? What is the Evant to make of that?”

His voice had gone dangerously quiet. Lotaern met the challenge silently, the two glaring at each other in the firelit darkness.

“You have overstepped the bounds of the Order,” Fedorem said quietly.

“We shall see,” Lotaern growled.

Aeren stepped between the two, catching their attention. “Right now-” he nodded to where Lotaern’s men were lifting up a collapsed tent, one of the men crying out and bending over a limp body “-it’s unimportant.”

Both Lotaern and Fedorem watched in silence as one of the members of the Order of the Flame grabbed the body beneath the arms and lifted, another taking the legs. They carried the man’s corpse to one side, out of the reach of the torchlight, murmuring the litany for the dead, their words fading into the night.

The animosity between the Chosen and the Tamaell lessened, Lotaern bowing his head a moment, eyes closed.

When he looked back up, he said to Aeren, “What have you told him?”

“Everything that Colin has told us.”

“Then there isn’t much more I can explain.” His voice was still cold. “The sarenavriell have existed since the Scripts were written, have existed since before the last time the world Turned, even before that.”

“And the sukrael?” Fedorem asked.

Lotaern hesitated. “It was thought that the sukrael and the Faelehgre had existed as long as the sarenavriell, that they had been established as guardians and protectors. That is how they are depicted in the Scripts.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. “But since then I’ve spoken to Shaevaren at length about his time in the forest, his time among the Faelehgre and near the sarenavriell. It seems that the sukrael and the Faelehgre are more prisoners than guardians. And now they’ve found a way to escape, in a limited way. I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can tell you than that. I do not know how they are awakening the sarenavriell. I do not know how they created the Wraiths.”

Fedorem frowned. “And what about the occumaen? Is there a connection between it and the sukrael?”

Lotaern grimaced, but then he paused, brow creasing in concentration. Almost reluctantly, he said, “It’s possible. The sukrael have been awakening powers long left dormant. It may be having unintended or unexpected consequences. But if there is a connection, I think it’s just that: unintended. I don’t think the sukrael are creating the occumaen on purpose. They have a different agenda.”