Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Behind him, Garius’ men grumbled, and Thaedoren shot Aeren a warning glance.

Waiting until the muttering had died down, Aeren looked directly at Garius and said, “No. That was not a mistake. That was planned.”

The outrage was instantaneous, the dwarren erupting in curses, swords raised for emphasis. Thaedoren stiffened in his saddle behind the group, his jaw set, his gaze black. But the dwarren didn’t move to attack; Garius hadn’t even raised his weapon.

Instead, he simply glared at Aeren past his lowered brow. “So you intend to speak the truth here as well?”

“Yes.”

Garius nodded.

“And was the betrayal of Maarten, our King, planned?” the Legionnaire demanded bitterly.

Aeren turned toward the commander, looked into his enraged eyes. He hesitated, but he realized he’d grown tired. Of the lies, the half-lies. Of veiled suspicions and secrets.

He drew in a deep breath, aware that Thaedoren stood to one side, aware that he’d already stepped over his bounds by admitting to the dwarren that there had been an alliance between the Alvritshai and the humans to the dwarren. But he no longer cared.

“The betrayal at the Escarpment was planned,” he said bluntly.

The commander jerked back as if he’d been struck, his eyes going wide in surprise, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Behind him, his men gasped or cried out, those not carrying the banners of truce edging their mounts forward. But they did not draw their weapons.

Because the commander hadn’t drawn his.

Aeren could see the rage, pent up for thirty years, feeding on suspicion, on his lord’s blatant hatred, fostered by the constant struggle on the borders among all of the races. His teeth ground together, and his breathing came harsh and ragged. The hand holding the hilt of his sword clenched and unclenched as he fought himself, the urge to draw and vent his rage on Aeren and the Alvritshai clear in his eyes, in the strained lines of his face.

Aeren didn’t know what held the commander’s hand, but in the end he calmed himself, enough to release his blade, enough to wave his men back, the gesture sharp, barely controlled. The muscles in his face contracted as he drew a short breath. “And yet you come here expecting us to discuss peace.”

“The betrayal was planned,” Aeren said, “but not by all of the Evant. I was not aware of it, nor was my brother, the Lord of House Rhyssal at the time. I know of at least two other lords who were dragged into it after your King had been killed.”

The Legionnaire spat, “And what of Fedorem? What of your precious Tamaell? Was he aware?”

Aeren winced. “That is what the Tamaell wishes to discuss.”

“Ha!” The commander shook his head in disgust. He leaned forward in his saddle, leather creaking. “It matters little if the Tamaell was aware. He kept his mouth shut afterward, didn’t he? He became complicit the moment he allowed it to happen, the moment he allowed it to go unpunished.”

The commander took the reins of his horse in one hand, nudged his horse around, turning it back toward the human armies. “There will be no talks,” he said coldly. “We learned a harsh lesson here at the Escarpment thirty years ago, one we have not forgotten: The Alvritshai cannot be trusted.”

Then he turned his back on them all, motioning with one hand toward the others in his escort.

Aeren felt a moment of panic, even though he’d expected this response. He’d seen their resistance, their human stubbornness, in Corsair. He’d seen the hatred and pain that still lay on the surface, both there and in Portstown, in all the other cities he’d visited in the Provinces.

But circumstances had changed. The world had changed.

The world was Turning.

“How goes the war with Andovan?” he asked loudly, before the Legionnaire and his men could move beyond earshot.

The commander halted, his back stiffening, his men pulling up short around him. One of them looking back with a glare.

Aeren edged his horse forward. “It doesn’t appear to be going well,” he said casually. “They’ve attacked nearly every port on your coast, in nearly every Province. We know that they’re hounding your shipping fleets, interrupting your trade, sinking what they cannot take. We were surprised you could send so many of the Legion here, especially since we weren’t posing an imminent threat at the time.”

The Legionnaire shifted slightly, so that Aeren could see his profile. But he did not turn around. “What is your point?” he said, voice still heated.

He knew the point. Aeren could hear it in his voice. He answered anyway.

“You can’t afford to have your forces divided. This conflict on the plains is useless and only distracts you from a more pressing threat: the Andovans. They’ve been distracted by their internal conflict these long years, by their Feud. But that’s ended. They have their sights set on their lost colonies, on their lost lands. And their attacks are escalating.

“You need this peace. You need it more than we do.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. The Alvritshai couldn’t afford to lose many more lives. There were fewer than eighty thousand Alvritshai left, when once there were two hundred thousand. And he knew the dwarren were in a similar situation. He’d seen the decrease in dwarren on the plains, although the dwarren would recover much more quickly than the Alvritshai. In that respect, the dwarren were like the humans. They bred like rabbits.

But the attacks by the Andovans were more immediate and more pressing.

Aeren saw the commander frown, his chin dropping slightly.

Then he turned away again. But before he kicked his horse forward, he said bitterly, “I’ll inform King Stephan of your request.”

Aeren watched him and his escort gallop back across the plains to their ranks for a moment before turning to Garius.

The dwarren clan chief eyed Aeren shrewdly. He’d been listening to the conversation intently, and he now fingered the hilt of his sword as he stared Aeren down.

“You already know why we must talk of peace,” he finally said.

Aeren nodded. “The sukrael.”

Garius glanced in the direction of the forest, too distant to actually see on the horizon. “The urannen.” His lip twitched as he said the name, and he spat to one side.

When he turned back, he said, “I will tell the Cochen of your talk.”

Then he spun his gaezel around, calling an order to the rest of the dwarren. Their gaezels leaped forward, leaving Thaedoren behind on his horse.

He cantered forward, to face Aeren. “You risk much for this peace.”

“I risk everything,” Aeren said darkly.

Thaedoren measured him with a glance, then nodded. “I’ll remain with the dwarren until the meeting can be arranged.”

“I’ll inform the Tamaell.”

Thaedoren pulled his horse around and charged out after the dwarren.

Aeren met Eraeth’s gaze.

“That could have gone better,” his Protector said blandly as they headed back toward the Tamaell and the rest of the Alvritshai army.

“It gives us a chance. Let’s hope the talk itself is less anger fueled.”

It wasn’t.

Aeren could already feel the tension radiating from the men, dwarren, and Alvritshai gathered about the tent that had been erected in the center of the battlefield. All of those assembled were glaring at the other two contingents, even as each party sent a single member into the tent to verify that everything had been set up as established during the two days of negotiations. The dwarren had demanded that their own meeting tent be used, but King Stephan had refused on the grounds that he was unfamiliar with their setup and layout. An argument had ensued, with Tamaell Fedorem finally offering the compromise that they use a human tent, with the stipulation that one of the dwarren shamans be allowed to sanctify it. Both sides had grudgingly agreed.