Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Colin drew in a steadying breath, all of the strange men’s attention fixing on him as he did so. “Aeren, this is my father, Tom.”

“Tom,” Aeren said, pronouncing the name as carefully as he had Colin’s the night before. Colin’s father nodded, but Aeren had already turned toward Arten and Walter. He looked at Colin expectantly.

“This is Arten-”

“Ar-ten.”

“-and Walter.” He said the name curtly, his anger tingeing his voice.

Aeren frowned. “Walter.”

Then he turned back toward Colin’s father and gave him a deep bow from the waist, the gesture strangely formal. When he rose, he motioned them across the stream. “Come,” he said, indicating a section of ground where the grass had been trampled down in a circular pattern, the edges of the circle clearly defined. “Sit.”

Tom hesitated, then stepped across the stream using the stones that weren’t submerged beneath the water, settling to the ground on the far side, near the center of the circle, opposite where Aeren sat, legs crossed. As Colin knelt in the grass, he noticed that it hadn’t been trampled down but laid in a distinctive pattern, almost as if the stalks had been woven together.

When everyone had settled, only two of Aeren’s followers still standing at the edge of the circle of grass, Aeren motioned for a pouch from the man who’d leaned forward to murmur in his ear. Opening it, he withdrew two bowls, one wide and shallow, the other small and deep, and two packages that appeared to be wrapped in long, wide leaves, the outermost leaves charred. He unwrapped one of the packages, sniffed at the haunch of meat inside, nose wrinkling, then proceeded to draw a wicked- looking knife from a sheath at the small of his back.

Arten instantly tensed, hand falling to his sword, over an inch of the blade appearing in the strengthening sunlight. On the opposite side of the circle, Aeren’s guards barked a warning, drew their short swords in a flash of motion that stunned Colin, so fast that he saw only a flare of light as sunlight struck against metal. Aeren stilled, his expression annoyed.

No one moved.

Aeren murmured something under his breath.

Neither of his guards looked pleased, but they resheathed their swords. Slowly. They didn’t take their hands from the hilts, however.

Aeren set the meat down into the shallow bowl. His knife never wavered. Without taking his eyes off of Arten, he lowered the long knife to the meat and began to cut it into thin slices.

Arten released the hilt of his sword, letting it slide back into its sheath.

Only then did Aeren look down at what he was doing. All of the meat sliced, including the second package, he sheathed his knife, reached back into the pouch, and produced a drinking skin. Pulling out the stopper, he drained it into the deeper bowl, then set the skin and the leaves used to wrap and cook the meat aside.

Standing, he picked up the bowl of meat and moved to the center of the circle of grass. He motioned Tom to do the same, and when he stood opposite him, he said something in his own language, the words formal, and then presented Tom with the bowl of meat.

He took the bowl uncertainly, and at Aeren’s insistence he picked up a thin slice and passed the bowl around to the others. Colin took a slice last, then returned the bowl to Aeren, who smiled and passed the bowl among his own group until everyone had his own piece.

Then he said something more in his own language and bit into his slice.

Colin waited until his father took a bite before he tried his own. It smelled spicy, with some type of chopped green herb he didn’t recognize coating the outside edges. It tasted even spicier, salty and peppery, with something hotter kicking in at the back of his throat after he started chewing. There was a citrus taste to it as well, like lemon. The meat itself was wild and gamy in flavor, and he guessed it was one of the deer, like those they’d killed yesterday.

He heard someone choking and glanced up to see Walter coughing into his hand, looking as if he wanted to spit the food out. Arten glared at him, and he grimaced, forced himself to continue chewing, and swallowed with effort.

Aeren’s followers glanced at each other, troubled, but no one said anything.

Aeren stepped back to retrieve the other bowl. As with the meat, he said something over it, like a benediction or prayer, and then presented it to Tom. This time, his father took it without hesitation and sipped, his face carefully neutral. He passed the bowl to Arten next, and Aeren nodded, watching as it was passed around.

Colin was last again, the dark red liquid some kind of wine, drier and more tart than he was used to. It made the inside of his mouth pucker.

The wine made the rounds of Aeren’s group, and then Aeren motioned everyone to sit back down, taking his own place on the other side of the circle.

The formalities over, Aeren’s expression grew stern. He considered Colin and the rest seated before him, glanced at all of those up on the bank, Karen and Colin’s mother at the front, behind the line of sentries, then looked hard at Colin’s father. “Where go?”

His father shifted, then pointed. “South and east.”

Aeren shook his head. “No.” He motioned toward the group on the bank, mimed all of them turning around and heading back the way they’d come. “Go.”

Tom frowned and leaned back, shaking his head. “We can’t go back. There’s nothing for us back there. We want to go to the south and east.”

“No!” Aeren said more emphatically. He said something sharp in his own language. “No go southandeast!”

“We can’t go back,” his father repeated, patiently. “Why do you want us to go back? And how do you know Andovan?”

Frustrated, Aeren waved toward the northwest. “Go! Go!”

When Tom only continued to shake his head, Aeren snorted in disgust. Behind him, one of the other men said something, and he stilled, listening.

As they spoke, Arten leaned forward. “I think they’re trying to warn us of something.”

“They aren’t doing a very good job of it,” Tom responded. “And even if they are, we can’t afford to go back at this point. We’ve come too far.”

“It’s obvious they don’t know our language well,” Arten said. “We’ll have to be patient. They’re trying to tell us something. And as Colin says, I don’t think they intend to harm us.”

Opposite them, Aeren finished the argument with his guard and turned back to Tom, who’d straightened. Seeing the stiffened back, Aeren sighed.

Carefully, he folded the leaves that had been used to wrap the meat and placed them, the bowls, and the wineskin into the pouch, handing it off to one of the guards. He motioned to Colin and the rest, to those on the embankment behind them, and then said, “Come.” When no one moved, his expression darkened. “Come,” he said more forcefully, indicating a direction almost directly south of them. Part of his group had already stood and headed off ahead of him, spreading out in a wide line. Most of them didn’t seem all that concerned with making certain the people from Portstown were following them, their attention turned outward, as if they’d already forgotten they’d met the group. Only Aeren and one other stayed behind, inside the circle.

Tom hesitated a long moment, frowning, eyes locked on Aeren, then stood, brushing off his breeches before heading back toward the camp.

“What are you doing?” Walter demanded. He’d remained quiet for the entire exchange.

Without turning, Tom said, “I’m going to order the rest of the wagons loaded. He obviously wants to show all of us something, and I intend to see what it is.”

“Why are you helping them? They obviously don’t want to listen, like the last group.”