Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

“It would explain why they’ve become so much larger,” Eraeth said from his place a step behind them all.

“And stronger,” Lotaern agreed. “It might also explain the increase in the number of unnatural storms on the plains as well.” He mulled the new idea over in his head, considering the possibilities.

Fedorem fell silent for a long moment. On the far horizon, purplish-blue lightning flickered in the darkness, although there were no clouds obscuring the sky yet.

Finally, Fedorem turned. “Why? What does Lord Khalaek hope to gain from an alliance with these… Wraiths?”

No one spoke. Lotaern looked at the ground. Fedorem eyed both the Chosen and Aeren, until Aeren finally said, “We don’t know.”

Fedorem considered this, mouth downturned. “Then it’s all speculation. With Benedine dead, there’s no way to link Khalaek to the Wraiths. It would be your word against his, one lord against another. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Do you believe them?” Moiran asked as she used shears to slice blankets and cloth into thin strips for bandages by lamplight, the tent draped in shadows. Most of the material had been scavenged from the camp, from all the Lords of the Evant and what remained of her own supplies.

On the far side of the small tent-much smaller than the one they’d been using-Fedorem halted his slow pace and settled into a small chair. “Do I believe that Khalaek would infiltrate the Order with a member from his own House? Yes. Do I believe that he’d use that to help him undermine my hold on the Evant, to extend his influence? Yes. Do I believe he’d work with these Wraiths, creatures that Aeren and Lotaern claim were created by the sukrael, creatures that no one has seen or heard of except for this Shaeveran, this human named Colin?” He shook his head, brow creased, but said nothing, one hand pinching his lower lip in thought, elbow resting on the arm of the chair.

Moiran frowned. “That human… is no longer human. He saved me from the occumaen.”

“So you said.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply, and she stopped cutting, placing the shears in her lap so she could catch Fedorem’s eyes and hold them. “He didn’t simply drag me to safety. He halted time. He somehow stopped everything and gave us the chance to escape.” Something hot and hard rose up into her throat, and she felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In a choked voice, she added, “I thought the occumaen would claim me. I could feel its breath upon me, the Breath of Heaven-”

She bowed her head, fought down the heated pressure in her chest. She’d avoided the thought of the occumaen all day by burying herself in the tending of the wounded, in their pain.

She heard Fedorem rise from his seat and approach, felt his hand on her shoulder.

“You’re saying he is one of the Aielan-aein, that he has been Touched by Aielan.”

Moiran gave a snorting laugh, the sound thick and phlegmy. “He is more than simply Touched. He has been gifted. None of the Aielan-aein within the Order could have done what he did. None of them have shown that kind of power, that kind of strength.” She paused, thinking of the terror she’d felt as the occumaen bore down on her. “I only wish he’d been able to save Faeren and the others.”

Fedorem squeezed her shoulder once, and then his hand slipped free. Moiran noted that he looked more troubled than before as he settled back into his chair.

“That changes nothing. Even if I did believe Lord Aeren and the Chosen, it is still one lord accusing another. And in the confines of the Evant, I cannot choose between the two unless the Evant demands it.”

“Then Aeren should present his claim to the Evant.”

Fedorem shook his head again. “He won’t. Aeren knows his place in the Evant. House Rhyssal has descended in the ranks these past hundred years. It is now one of the lesser Houses. Aeren would not find the support within the Evant to even bring his accusation to the floor for serious consideration, let alone get them to hand the decision over to me. The rivalry between House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen is too well known.”

Moiran’s frown deepened as she picked up the shears again and began cutting.

“No,” Fedorem said, mostly to himself, as he rose again and moved toward the entrance to the tent. He stood before the opening, although he didn’t stoop to go outside into the night. It was late, but Moiran could still hear the sounds of the Phalanx and servants picking through the destruction caused by the occumaen, guardsmen calling out as more bodies were found. “There’s nothing I can do about Khalaek.”

Moiran was happy to hear a trace of venom in Fedorem’s voice at the lord’s name. “Then why are you so restless? You should sleep.”

“I can’t,” Fedorem murmured. “There’s too much death, too much-”

Moiran glanced up as he broke off, saw the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, in his back, saw the shift from Tamaell to Phalanx guardsman in his stance, wary now, dangerous.

Before she could react, he ducked and shoved his way out of the tent into the darkness.

“Fedorem!”

She tossed the shears aside and scrambled to her feet, her heart quickening. She slid out of the tent, one hand checking to make certain she still carried her knife, but she found Fedorem standing with a group of Phalanx immediately outside, all facing in the same direction, all almost preternaturally still.

She moved up beside her husband and whispered, “What is it?”

He glanced toward her, eyes hard, jaw tight. “Listen.”

She frowned and grew still. All she could hear were the calls of the workers, coming from all sides. She’d drawn breath to ask what she should be listening for when she heard it.

Drums. The faintest echo of drums.

“From the south,” one of the Phalanx members said.

Fedorem nodded. “Yes.” Without another word, he headed toward the northern part of the camp. A breath later, the rest of the Phalanx followed.

Moiran hesitated, then straightened and trailed after.

They moved through the camp as the sounds of the drums grew louder, loud enough that the rest of the camp began to notice. By the time they reached the ridge to the northwest, they’d been joined by at least twenty other Phalanx and a few of the servants. Others had already gathered there, including members of the Evant. Moiran saw Lord Aeren and the Chosen of the Order on one side, Lords Waerren and Jydell on the other.

And waiting to meet them was Lord Khalaek.

“Tamaell,” Khalaek said with a deferential nod as Fedorem approached.

“Lord Khalaek. What news?”

Khalaek smiled slightly. “See for yourself.”

As she reached the ridge, Moiran halted, drawn up short by the sight.

On the plains to the south, still distant but drawing closer with every resounding thud of the drums, were the pinprick reddish flames of torches and lanterns, stretching away into the darkness in a thick but ragged column.

“It would appear,” Khalaek said, his voice soft but filled with satisfaction, “that Lord Aeren was misinformed.” He turned to Fedorem, the smile still touching his eyes.

“The dwarren have arrived.”

Aeren squinted into the early morning sunlight and felt his stomach roil sickeningly. His mount shifted beneath him and snorted, stamping one foot. He reached down to calm it and said, voice tight, “It’s just like before.”

To his left, Eraeth grunted.

Before them on the flat, the three armies had gathered.

The Tamaell and all of the Lords of the Evant were present at the base of the small rise east of the battlefield, the Phalanx from each of the Houses gathered in close formation behind them. Banners for all of the Houses flapped in the stiff breeze, and armor clanked as the Alvritshai and their mounts shifted fitfully beneath the glare of the sun. The Tamaell stood at the forefront, the lords arrayed to either side, all except Aeren, who stood within the Tamaell’s escort, a few paces back.