Jayson Freeholt spat a curse when he heard the fifty-pound bag of barley grain slung across his shoulder begin to rip. He spun and swung the bulk toward the wall of the mill, but the burlap tore even as he moved. The weight of the half of the sack pressed against his back suddenly lifted as grain sloughed to the wooden floor with a hideous hiss and scattered, the small seeds skittering into cracks and crevices and pattering against his legs.
He stood stock-still for a long moment, listening to a last few escaping grains as they fell and bounced across the floor, then his shoulders slumped, the weight of the front half of the barley still heavy against his chest.
It had been one of those days.
“Corim!” he bellowed, letting anger tinge his voice. “Corim, where in Diermani’s bloody Hands are you?”
“I’m on the meal floor!” The shout was muted by the grinding of the stones of the grist mill on the floor that separated them. “I’m tying off th-”
The rest of the young boy’s sentence was lost, but Jayson didn’t care. “Leave it and get the hells up here! And stop the bloody mill on your way up. We’re done for the day!”
Spitting another curse, he carefully shifted the remaining weight of the bag clutched to his chest, wincing as more grain escaped. The barley crunched beneath his feet as he hauled the half sack to the wall, grabbed a length of twine from a hook, and tied it off for tomorrow. As he snatched up a broom and wide metal pan from the back wall of tools and bent to sweep up the grain, he heard the steady drone of the two stones fade and grunted to himself. Corim must have lifted the stone nut that halted the milling.
A moment later, Jayson heard Corim’s feet pounding up the stairs from the stone floor to the sack floor. He poured the first pan full of grain into the bin of the hopper when Corim appeared.
“Why are we stopping?” Corim asked, then halted, mouth a wide O, eyes even wider as he saw Jayson standing in the middle of the scattered grain.
“Because I’ve had enough.” Jayson tried not to smile at the look on Corim’s face. His apprentice was barely twelve years old, but was already as tall as Jayson, all gangly legs and arms. Jayson expected the boy would outgrow him in the next year or two. But Corim still had the face of someone younger and the look of shock was too comical.
“But we haven’t even gotten Harlson’s order ground yet-”
“I don’t care. We had problems with the sluice gate this morning, Harlson delivered his sacks of grain late, someone-” he shot a glare toward Corim, who winced, “-dropped an acorn into the hopper that took forever to fish out, and now this. Holy Diermani has cursed this day and I’ve had enough. Besides, by the time we get this cleaned up it’ll be dark, so grab a broom.”
Corim scurried off to find a second broom, and Jayson wiped the gritty sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. The motion became a long stretch, his lower back tight. With the grist mill stopped, the groan of the giant water wheel and the rush of the water from the sluice and the stream filled the building; he’d always found those sounds soothing.
Sighing, he began sweeping the loose grain into a single heap near the center of the room, trying to keep the grains from falling through the cracks to the floor below. Corim returned a moment later to help.
By the time they finished, night had fallen completely and they were working by the soft glow of two lanterns. Jayson’s back ached from bending over and he had a mild headache. But the sack room floor was as clean as he’d ever seen it since the mill had been built.
He squeezed Corim’s shoulder once, then pushed him gently toward the stairs. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
They went through the mill, Jayson closing the sluice gate to shut off the wheel, Corim gathering their things into satchels and readying the mill for their arrival tomorrow morning. They both grabbed a lantern and exited through the wide wooden doors at the back of the mill, away from the stream. Corim held Jayson’s lantern as he pulled the door closed behind them with a grunt.
When Jayson turned around to take his lantern back, Corim stood rigid, muscles tensed, one of the lanterns held out before him. The boy’s gaze was locked on the edge of the forest beside the narrow dirt lane that led to the village.
“What is it?”
Corim jumped at his voice, turned frightened eyes toward him. “I thought I saw something on the lane.”
Jayson shot a glance toward the empty roadway. The trees were dark to either side, the lanterns’ glow illuminating only a small grassy area around the mill, the ground rutted from wagon wheels and carts delivering grain. Overhead, the sky was clear, stars like pinpricks, the moon hidden behind the trees and the surrounding hills.
Jayson frowned into the darkness. “What did you see?”
Corim shook his head. “Something ran across the road, at the edge of the light. Low to the ground. But-”
“But what?”
Corim swallowed. “It had eyes. Yellow eyes, like cat’s eyes. But it didn’t move like a cat. I think it saw me. And… I think it hissed at me.”
Jayson’s frown deepened. He hadn’t heard anything, but he’d been struggling with the door. “It probably was a cat,” he said, straightening. He tried to shrug his sudden unease aside as he took his lantern, but he found the back of his shoulders prickling and itching as he moved toward the lane, Corim a step behind. One hand slid into the satchel slung across his chest, rooted around at the contents inside until he found the handle of his sheathed knife. Without taking his eyes off the lane, he unhooked the clasp and drew the blade free, keeping it close to his side. The village wasn’t far-a short stretch along the lane to the main road, and then a half mile to the center square. The mill would have been in the center of the village if the founders hadn’t built near where the river widened and the current was sluggish. He needed the swifter currents upriver to work the grist stones.
They entered the lane, trees to either side, low underbrush coming up to the road’s edge. Branches arched overhead, leaves rustling in a light breeze. Otherwise, the forest was silent, with none of its usual sounds-the hoot of an owl or the rustle of something passing through the underbrush. Jayson shivered.
They’d made it halfway to the main road that led to Gray’s Kill when Jayson heard the hiss, low and scratchy and nothing like a cat. It crawled up beneath his skin and set the hairs on the back of his arms and neck on end.
He halted. Corim bounced into his side from behind as he scanned the shadows thrown by their lanterns.
Then Corim cried out, pointed, and even as Jayson turned, knife raised defensively, he saw the eyes-pale luminescent yellow, wider than a cat’s, set in a malformed, black face, above a mouth opened wide and riddled with teeth.
The creature leaped from the underbrush, straight at Jayson. He barked out a yell of horrified surprise, tripped over a rut in the road, and stumbled as the thing latched onto the forearm of his knife hand, teeth sinking in deep. He screamed, landed hard on his back, air whooshing from his lungs, the light from the lantern dancing wildly. He flung his arm to the side, trying to shake the creature off, and felt its growl shuddering through his arm. Claws shredded the sleeves of his shirt, scored his flesh, and he slammed it into the ground, once, twice, then dropped his lantern, switched his knife to his free hand and swung at the thing wildly. The blade struck the creature across the back and it released him with a piercing shriek, falling away. Jayson kicked back, scraping along the dirt as the creature scrambled to right itself, moving unlike anything he’d seen before, all leathery muscle and sinew and tendon. It glared at him, the malevolence in its eyes, in its stance, palpable. It hissed again, tensed itself to leap toward him-
And then Corim appeared from the forest, a large branch in one hand. He raised it overhead and with a panicked cry brought it down on the thing’s back so hard the branch cracked and split.
The creature yelped like a beaten dog and scuttled away from them both, but turned with another hiss before dodging into the underbrush of the forest.
Jayson gasped into the night’s silence, Corim shifting closer to him.
“What was that thing?” Corim asked. His voice was raw and cracked, shaking.
Jayson sat up, winced as he tried to use his mangled arm, then brought it closer to the lantern light. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Blood stained his sleeve, seeping sluggishly from several ragged cuts and the jagged curve of the bite mark, but none of the cuts were dangerous. They stung when he moved his arm, but he’d recover.
Something darker stained one side of his shirt though. He frowned down at it, touched it with one finger and felt his skin burn at the touch.
“What is it?”
“Blood,” Jayson said, wiping it off on the bottom of his shirt. “From that thing. I must have cut it when I swung at it with the knife.”
The undergrowth rustled and they both lurched upright, Corim brandishing his branch, Jayson the knife. But the noise receded. Jayson scrambled to his feet as something skittered across the lane just outside the light of the lanterns, followed by two more on the other side.
“Holy Diermani preserve us,” Jayson muttered, eyes wide, his gut clenching so tight he thought he’d piss his pants. “There’s more of them.”
“And they’re headed toward the village.”
Jayson stared at Corim in shocked silence, then whispered. “Lianne.”
He snatched up the lantern and began to run. Corim’s harsh breath followed him. Jayson’s feet pounded into the earth, his own breath tight and constricted in his chest as the forest of the lane flashed past, shadows and trees juddering wildly in the swinging light. A chittering sound surrounded them, punctuated by harsh hisses, a few shapes darting in and out of the light through the underbrush, as if tracking them, but Jayson didn’t pause. He burst from the lane onto the hard-packed, flatter roadway, tripped, and fell to the ground with a curse. Corim caught up to him as he regained his feet.
Then a gust of wind brought the thick stench of smoke and he stilled.
Ahead, lurid against the black silhouette of the trees, a fire raged. A horse’s scream pierced the air and abruptly cut off, but in the stillness that followed he picked out different sounds: faint shouts, the harsh baying of a dog, the clash of weapons, and as a backdrop to it all, the low, rushing sound of flames roaring into the night.
The wind shifted again, blowing black smoke across the road. He choked on it, on the oily soot and hot ash that stung the skin of his face. Coughing, he hunched forward, his wounded arm coming up in a vain attempt to shield himself.
Beside him, he heard Corim suck in a ragged breath. “Ma!” he cried out.
The youth leaped forward, but Jayson snagged him by the arm and jerked him back. Corim nearly slipped from his grasp, but Jayson tightened his grip, hard enough to bruise. “Corim!” he growled, and shook the boy. “Corim, stop! Look!”
Corim turned on him, the look of panic and horror sending a dagger into Jayson’s heart. The same sick nausea roiled in his own stomach as he thought of Lianne, of her silver-shot brown hair, hazel eyes, and smooth cheeks that dimpled when she laughed. But he swallowed the taste of bile at the back of his throat and forced Corim to meet his eyes.
“Look,” he repeated, and nodded toward the road in the direction of the fires.
Corim twisted in Jayson’s grip to look back over his shoulder.
At the horse’s scream-Holy Diermani, Jayson prayed it had been a horse-the chittering in the forest had fallen silent. But the creatures hadn’t left. In the shadows beneath the trees, made pitch-black by the red-orange blaze where Gray’s Kill burned, pale yellow eyes glowed in the reflected light of their lanterns. He counted half a dozen pairs between them and the village. But even as he watched, more shifted to the edge of the road.
A pack. They had been tracking them, and calling in the rest of their group.
In his grip, Corim tensed and a small whimper escaped the boy. Jayson’s gaze flicked toward the burning village, his mouth suddenly dry with fear, but he couldn’t risk Corim. The boy had been entrusted to him by the youth’s parents.
A dozen of the creatures now gathered at the edge of the road, and they were moving closer. Jayson didn’t know what held them back-the light from their lantern or if they were waiting for greater numbers-but he didn’t want to linger to find out.
“The barge,” he murmured, backing up, drawing Corim with him. The boy resisted a moment, straining toward Gray’s Kill, toward his home, as Jayson’s heart yearned to seek out Lianne, but then the boy relented. Jayson nearly choked with relief. Voice thick, he said, “We’re going to run for it, straight to the river, no stopping, no matter what. Understand?”
Without taking his eyes off the creatures in the forest, Corim nodded. Another shift in the wind and a hot blast of smoke skated across the road, obscuring the creatures from sight.
“Go!” Jayson barked, dragging Corim around and thrusting him in the opposite direction, away from the raging inferno of Gray’s Kill. The youth cried out, stumbled but caught himself, and then they were both tearing down the darkened road, Jayson holding his lantern high, his other hand clutching desperately at the knife. His satchel slammed against his side, his legs already burning, but he pushed himself harder. Behind, he heard a sharp hiss and the sudden crackle of underbrush and swore beneath his breath, but he didn’t turn to look. When Corim slowed and tried to glance back, Jayson gasped, “Run!” and gestured with his knife hand.
Whatever Corim saw made his eyes flare wide and then he raced ahead, outpacing Jayson. He caught one of the creatures out of the corner of his eye, lithe and black in the swaying lantern light, racing him along the edge of the road. It bared its needlelike fangs and dodged toward him.
Jayson cried out and flailed with his knife, hitting the creature and knocking it to one side, but not before its claws dug into his calf, shredding his breeches and drawing three slashes down his leg as it fell away. Pain lanced up into Jayson’s gut, even as two more of the creatures raced out before him on the other side. Corim was already twenty paces ahead, and Jayson shouted, “Get on the barge and untie it! Don’t wait for me!”
Corim didn’t acknowledge him, merely gained another five paces as Jayson lagged, blood flowing freely down his calf. His breath tore at his lungs. His heart shuddered in his chest. Every fiber of his body trembled with exhaustion, tingling with spent adrenaline.
Corim rounded the last bend in the road, the creatures shrieking as they bounded in to cut him off. But they hadn’t gained enough on the boy. Jayson heard Corim’s feet thundering on the wooden planks of the dock, then rounded the curve, the sound of the river suddenly loud, breaking through the pounding of Jayson’s heart in his ears and his heaving breath. He caught Corim frantically untying the barge, the guiding rope tied to the small dock arching down and out into the darkness, the river glinting with lantern light.
The two creatures were charging the dock.
With a roar, Jayson flung himself forward, dropping his lantern as he reached for them, swinging with his knife. His blade sank into the flesh of one, its scream shattering the rush of the water, the creature scrambling away to one side. His hand closed about the leg of the other even as his body slammed into the ground.
He rolled, his roar cut off with the impact, grappling with the creature as it twisted in his grip and snapped at his face. The dirt from the road gave way to the wood planking of the dock as he brought his knife around, slicing down the creature’s back. It hissed as black blood splattered onto Jayson’s face, burning, but Jayson slashed again and again, striking the creature with each blow. It shrieked and then fell to the dock beside him, struggling weakly. He kicked it hard, watched it roll off the wood to splash into the river, leaving a trail of blood behind it, and then Jayson staggered to his feet.
The other creature he’d stabbed as he fell writhed on the sloped bank, a harsh keening filling the night. Others had emerged from the forest and were milling about just outside of the spill of the dropped lantern. Jayson counted at least ten, their eyes glaring in the darkness as they leaped forward and hissed before retreating. He could feel the creatures watching him, his skin prickling beneath their gazes, beneath their hatred. They seemed wary of the flames.
Or the water.
Someone snagged at his shirt. He lurched to one side before realizing it must be Corim.
“It’s untied,” the youth said, voice shaking. “Let’s go!”
Jayson nodded and pushed him toward the barge, keeping his eyes on the creatures. They screamed and grew frenzied as the two climbed into the bottom of the barge, Corim already pulling on the rope to draw them away from the dock and out into the river’s current.
Then, suddenly, all of the creatures on the bank stilled, heads turning toward the left side of the road. A few traded glances, their large, luminous eyes narrowed-
As abruptly as they’d appeared, they vanished, slinking back into the shadows beyond the light of the torch.
“Wait,” Jayson said, creeping forward in the barge. “Don’t pull us any farther out.”
“But-” Corim protested, the single word fraught with fear.
“They’re leaving.”
Jayson felt the barge rock as Corim shifted forward, his hand still on the guiding rope. The youth crouched down beside him. Exhaustion shuddered through him, and Jayson’s calf throbbed with pain, but he still reached out a reassuring hand and gripped Corim’s shoulder.
They watched the end of the dock and the roadway beyond, the light from the abandoned lantern flickering and threatening to go out. Far distant, over the tops of the trees, the glare of another fire pulsed against a thick column of billowing smoke.
Jayson’s heart had just begun to calm, the sweat on his skin cooling in the night air, when a branch cracked in the forest to the left. His muscles twinged as he started. Corim gasped.
He raised the knife before him, blade out.
Five figures emerged onto the roadway into the edge of the fading light from Jayson’s lantern and it took a moment before Jayson recognized them as dwarren. Half the height of either Jayson or Corim, they plowed through the underbrush, chopping at it with axes and short blades. Their beards were woven and braided with beads and feathers and pendants, their arms covered in metal bands, bodies with thick leather armor scored with patterns and whorls. Two of them carried long spears, the shafts etched with carvings, the tips shaped metal, like a rounded leaf.
The dwarren halted in the roadway, the leader of the group staring hard at the lantern, the body of the creature that now lay still, and Jayson, ignoring Corim completely. The pure hatred in the dwarren’s eyes, the sheer intensity of the emotion and the determination that bled from the dwarren’s body, left Jayson speechless.
The leader waved to the rest of the band, the gesture dismissive. The other four plowed into the forest on the far side of the road, the leader hanging back a moment, keeping his eye on Jayson. Then he vanished as well with a rustle of undergrowth and the dry snapping of branches.
Jayson didn’t move until Corim touched his arm.
“Those were dwarren,” the boy said.
“I know.” Jayson forced himself to relax, to lower his knife. He turned and grabbed the rope, the flat boat rocking at his movements, their only remaining lantern guttering in protest.
“They were headed toward the village.”
“I know!” Jayson spat. Without another word he hauled on the rope that connected this side of the river to the other. The rope sang as it pulled through the metal rings attached to each end of the barge, the wooden slats creaking as they moved farther away from the dock and into the river’s current. But the rope held. The current wasn’t strong enough here to make the crossing difficult, especially when the barge wasn’t laden down with supplies or horses.
“What do you think they were-?”
“I don’t know!”
Corim fell silent, his eyes wide.
When Jayson judged they were halfway across, he stopped. Shifting to the center of the barge, near the lantern, he squatted down, rubbed his hands together briskly, and blew on them for warmth. The night had turned chill. Corim joined him a moment later. They couldn’t see either side of the river; the lantern Jayson had dropped had burned out. The rope arched out into darkness on either side, the surface of the river glinting in ripples all around. The moon-barely more than a sliver-had risen above the surrounding hills, but it cast little light. The air was thick with the scent of water and smoke, and both Corim and Jayson reeked of fear sweat. Jayson could taste ash in his mouth.
A long, silent moment later, Corim asked tentatively, “What are we going to do?”
Jayson said nothing, breathing in steadily, slowly, to calm himself, thinking about the creatures, of Lianne and the dwarren. He thought of the fire-at least three of the main buildings in Gray’s Kill were burning, probably more-and the sounds of fighting. The village had been attacked. He didn’t know why, or by whom, didn’t know what those creatures were, but the dwarren were here. He’d seen them, clear as day.
Cobble Kill lay a day’s ride distant, and it housed a barracks of the Legion.
But Lianne. And Corim’s parents.…
He was Corim’s guardian now, until they knew what had happened to the boy’s parents.
Reluctantly, he said, “We have to go to Cobble Kill. GreatLord Kobel needs to know what has happened here.”
“I never realized the dwarren tunnels were so… extensive.”
Colin glanced up from removing the satchels and saddle packs from his horse to where Eraeth stood, staring out over the wide cavern the dwarren had chosen as a resting area. Unlike the chambers where the dwarren lived, this cavern was long and wide, the ceiling low, perhaps twice as high as Eraeth was tall. The river surged through the chamber in a deep channel to the right of where they’d entered, glinting with torchlight as the army of dwarren warriors began unpacking their camp. At the front of the combined army, one of the dwarren had removed a drum and beat out a steady rhythm into the mouth of the next tunnel, announcing their position, the information being passed down the way stations between them and the Confluence.
Two days before, they’d been joined by another large group of dwarren, the size of the army nearly doubling. At first, Colin had thought they came from one of the other clans, but as the new warriors dispersed, he realized they had merely been reinforcements for the three clans that were already part of the group.
It unsettled him. He wondered how many dwarren were being called to this Gathering, and to what purpose.
He shoved his speculations aside. He’d done nothing but ponder the possibilities during the ride so far and had come to no solid conclusions. He didn’t have enough information, and he wouldn’t get that information until they reached the Confluence. None of the clan chiefs or the head shamans knew anything beyond what they’d told him in the keeva, or they were unwilling to share their information if they had it. The fact that he knew nothing had nearly driven him to abandon the dwarren and Eraeth and Siobhaen altogether and use his powers to reach the Confluence ahead of them, but he’d resisted.
Besides, there was something he needed to do here.
“The dwarren tunnels run beneath the entire length of the plains,” he said in answer to Eraeth’s unasked question. “From the Escarpment all the way to the edges of the Thalloran Wasteland, from the mountains to the north to the Flats in the south. They have controlled them for generations, so long that they’ve lost count.”
Eraeth turned aside from his perusal of the dwarren as they methodically settled in to rest, the smells of a hundred cook fires beginning to fill the room. Colin’s stomach growled, but he ignored it.
“Did the dwarren build them?”
“No,” Colin said with a smile. “According to their legends, they were given the network of chambers and corridors by their gods, so that they could oversee the preservation of the Lands above and so they could protect the Sacred Waters. As far as I can surmise based on their histories, they have done so for well over two thousand years, but it’s hard to judge.”
“So they believe their gods built it for them?” Siobhaen said with a touch of derision.
“Of course,” Colin said. He frowned down at the contents of the satchel in his hands. He didn’t think he’d need much for his excursion, knew that most of what he had brought would be useless. He shrugged and cinched the satchel tightly, throwing it over one shoulder.
Eraeth was suddenly at his side. “Where are you going?”
He met the Protector’s frown. “I need to speak to the Faelehgre… and to the forest.”
“And were you going to tell us you were leaving?”
Colin turned in surprise as Siobhaen stepped up behind Eraeth. Both of them gave him a nearly identical look of anger. They barely spoke to each other on good days, but in this they were united? He shook his head. “I’ll be back before the dwarren rouse themselves and continue on.”
“That’s not the point,” Eraeth said.
“One of us should be with you,” Siobhaen added.
Eraeth nodded. “That was the whole point in having us accompany you.”
Colin glanced back and forth between them, eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. But no, there was still a tension between the two, an unspoken distrust. They simply both agreed, grudgingly, that he shouldn’t be traveling alone.
He sighed, focusing on Eraeth. “You can’t come with me. I don’t want to leave the dwarren army, and I have to travel too far to take either of you with me.” He let his voice harden. “I’m going to Terra’nor and the Well, that’s all. I’ll be gone at most a few hours.”
Siobhaen frowned in confusion. “You know where we are? How? I lost any sense of direction the moment we were taken underground.”
“I can sense the Well,” Colin said, not looking away from Eraeth. The Protector’s eyes searched his own. “We’re beneath the Ostraell, have been for the past day or so. We’re in the domain of the Faelehgre and within the bounds of the Seasonal Trees-the Summer Tree actually. I’ll be protected.”
Eraeth considered a long moment, then nodded once. “Very well.”
Siobhaen scowled, arms crossed over her chest.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Siobhaen,” Colin said. “He knows neither one of you could stop me.”
Then he slowed time and stepped to the side, catching the beginning of Siobhaen’s surprise before turning away and leaving them behind.
He Traveled, slid among all of the gathered dwarren in the midst of setting up camp, through pockets of the warriors circled around campfires, eating and drinking, all of their actions caught in mid-motion. He stalked past others herding the gaezels they rode to the far left, grain thrown out onto the floor to lure them away from the rest of the underground encampment. The dwarren were leading them in small groups to the river’s edge to drink. As he passed the head of the army, he noted the clan chiefs and head shamans were seated around a brazier, the sharp scent of yetope heavy on the air, even with time slowed.
And then he moved beyond the army, entering the wide mouth of the tunnel beyond.
He picked up the pace as soon as he passed into the darkness, reaching into his saddle to withdraw a wooden box. From inside, he took out a clear stone prism about as long as his hand, like quartz, but polished smooth on its faces. A tendril of white fire lay trapped inside the prism, whisking back and forth along its length, tongues of smaller flames flicking outward from the main tendril to trace along the edges of the crystal.
Siobhaen would be shocked to her core if she ever found the stone. As a member of the Order of the Flame, she’d recognize that the flame Colin had captured inside the crystal was part of Aielan’s Light, taken from the pool of fire that burned beneath the mountains of Caercaern. He had not asked for permission to capture the flame, not from Lotaern or the Order. He knew what the Chosen would have said, that the Fire was not a tool, but a manifestation of Aielan, that it should not be abused in such a manner.
Colin understood the significance of the Fire to the Alvritshai and, in particular, to the Order. He understood the need for faith. His mother had raised him beneath the Hand of Holy Diermani; he had read from the Codex, had attended church with his mother at his side, had prayed beneath the Tilted Cross, and had planned on taking his vows with Karen with the blessings of one of Diermani’s priests.
That would never happen now.
But he thought Lotaern and the Order were blinded by their faith. Aielan’s Fire could be used for other things, like the crystal he now held up to illuminate the passage before him. They had begun to explore such possibilities; the Alvritshai had witnessed the use of the Fire at the battlefield at the Escarpment, when Lotaern and that first battalion of the Flame had called it forth from the earth to disrupt the attack by the Legion. And Lotaern had used the Fire to help him in their first attempts at forging a weapon to use against the Wraiths.
Lotaern would never have considered removing part of the Fire itself from its natural cauldron, though.
Colin had no such compunctions… although he had merged with the Fire beneath Caercaern and asked Aielan for permission before he’d done so.
When he’d emerged from the Fire, the white flame had already inhabited the crystal.
The white light glowed on the smooth surface of the tunnel as he moved, broken only at intervals by support arches. At the first junction of the tunnel the dwarren army followed and another tunnel running crosswise to it, he turned left. He could feel the Well’s power through the walls of earth on either side, pulsing subtly. He followed the new, narrower corridor, passed a few open arches that led to empty rooms, both large and small, then paused at another junction. He stared at the three remaining openings, prism held aloft, then stepped into the entrance to each one, released time, and breathed in deeply.
The central corridor that ran straight ahead appeared to lead in the direction of the Well, but the tunnel to the left brought with it the faint scent of forest, of cedars and loam.
He headed to the left, slowing time again as he went. The corridor stretched on and on, seemingly endless, but then the support arches began to appear more frequently and within moments the corridor ended in a set of stone stairs, rising in sharp turns. He began to ascend, moving faster now.
Near the top, the scent of the forest strong enough to permeate his surroundings, he discovered that the original opening had collapsed. Earth riddled with roots and stone filled the stairwell, appearing black in the harsh light.
He held the prism higher and scanned the collapse in frustration. The profusion of roots suggested he was close to the surface, even if the collapse had happened decades before.
And he’d smelled cedar, not just loam.
He let go of time and caught the faint breath of a breeze. It touched his face and pushed at his hair, damp with a recent rain.
Craning his neck, he found he could barely see past the fall of dirt at the turn in the stairs. It didn’t appear to block the entire stairwell.
Keeping the crystal firmly in one hand, he shoved his satchel around to his back and began climbing the fallen debris. His free hand sank into the dirt and sent it cascading down behind him, but he struggled on, catching at the thicker roots the higher he rose to help pull himself upward. He lost his footing twice before he grasped desperately for the corner of stone that marked the stairwell’s turn, then hauled himself up around the corner with both hands, the edges of the prism biting hard into the flesh of his palm.
Propping himself against the corner, he raised the light and saw where the earth had caved in under the weight of centuries of debris. A narrow hole opened up through the earth. Beyond it, he could see cedar branches stirring and the pinpricks of stars.
The hole wasn’t large enough for him to fit through.
Cursing, he tucked the prism back into the box, replacing it in his satchel. The stairwell was sheathed in darkness, broken only by the faintest of light from the opening above. Drawing his shoulders up with a deep breath to steady himself, he let out the pent-up air with a sharp exhale and scrambled up the remaining slope to the hole.
His arm reached through to the fresh air and night sky above, then clawed at the ground as he shoved his head into the narrow opening. Dirt dislodged in his struggles rained down around his body trapped below, some falling beneath his shirt and skittering down his back and chest. He gasped and kicked with his feet, but he was too big.
He ceased struggling and found that his other arm, the one still below ground, was now lodged against his side.
He bit off another curse and forced himself to relax, to think. Dirt had caught near his mouth and he spit it out.
Growling, he tried to retreat. His free arm flailed, but he was lodged tightly in the hole now, head, arm, and left shoulder above ground. Spitting curses-at Diermani, Aielan, even Ilacqua, the dwarren god-he writhed in the hole, shoved hard against the needle-strewn earth, and finally collapsed backward as much as he could, spent.
His body was simply too damn big.
Then, staring up at the night sky, he started laughing.
Shaking his head, he focused.
The years sloughed off, his body growing younger and younger. The skin and wrinkles of the sixty-year-old man firmed and hardened into that of a thirty year old, then a twenty year old, before softening again as he drew himself back to the body of the twelve-year-old boy who had first drunk from the Well nearly two hundred years before.
A boy whose body was much leaner than the sixty-year-old form Colin normally wore.
He pulled himself from the hole easily, with only the satchel getting snagged on a root to impede the process. At last, he lay back on the dead needles shed from the trees, panting with the effort, then chuckled to himself again.
He hadn’t transformed his body to such a young age in decades, perhaps not since the Accord between the three races had been signed.
Climbing to his feet, he brushed off the dirt and debris from the forest floor, his clothes hanging on his thin frame. He thought about keeping the youthful form, but without proper clothes.…
He settled on a man in his mid-thirties, the clothes only slightly loose, then began winding his way through the trees toward Terra’nor.
When he reached the edges of the city, he found Osserin waiting. The piercing white light of the Faelehgre hovered beneath a large stone archway that still stood over one of the main roads, the towers, fountains, and lower buildings interspersed with the huge boles of trees receding into the distance behind him. Like most of the buildings of Terra’nor, the arch showed signs of its age. One corner had cracked and crumbled away, another crack running down the center of the arch, but it still stood.
Welcome home, Shaeveran, Osserin murmured, pulsing once. Have you come because of the Wells? Of their new awakening?
“Yes, and to ask the heart of the forest for another gift.”
We thought so. You are not the only one.
Colin shot the Faelehgre a startled glance. “What do you mean? Who else has been here? How did they get past the Faelehgre and my wardings?”
The Faelehgre began leading Colin through the city, the white towers with empty windows and shattered balconies looming on either side. Osserin turned down a central street lined with standing columns, most toppled. When Colin had been here before, nearly all of them had been standing.
No one has been to the Well. But the dwarren shamans have been to the heart of the forest.
“Why? What have they come for?”
Like you, they come asking for gifts, for shards of heartwood that their hunting parties-the trettarus-can use against the Shadows and the Wraiths. And the other fell creatures of the Turning.
Colin continued walking in silence, his body thrumming with shock. When the pair reached the height of the amphitheater’s stair that cupped the edge of one side of the Well, he halted. “I had not realized the dwarren knew of the heart of the forest.”
Osserin didn’t halt, drifting down the stairs toward the wide pool of flat water that spread out beneath them, the forest itself picking up where the city and the amphitheater ended. Below, the Well pulsed with blue-tinged light like the Well in the northern wastes, illuminating the surrounding trees and buildings with a harsh glare. More of the Faelehgre’s lights hovered over the water.
Their shamans knew of it ages ago, would come to the Heart to speak to the forest, to commune with the Lands. Until the Shadows found them. The dwarren did not come again after that, the cost too high, until they realized that the Summer Tree had freed them from the Shadows’ threat.
But come. There are more important things to discuss. The Faelehgre have been awaiting your arrival.
Colin wanted to ask more-he found the news that the dwarren communed with the heart of the forest unsettling and heartening; perhaps he was not as alone in his struggles as he had thought-but as he began descending the stairs, moving toward the Well and the intoxicating scent of the Lifeblood it contained, he realized Osserin spoke the truth. The Faelehgre around the Well were agitated, flashing and spinning over its waters. As he drew closer, he caught the edges of their conversation, the air humming with its pulse.
Osserin never got the chance to announce him. When he reached the stone lip of the Well-made from rounded river stone, not the stone used to build the city-the nearest of the Faelehgre noticed him and shot toward him.
Is this your doing? Have you awakened the Well to the east?
The air throbbed with the light’s anger, prickling along Colin’s skin. He glared at the Faelehgre.
“Of course not. Do you think I would be so stupid as to upset the balance it took me nearly thirty years to achieve?”
Then who was it? Who has awakened the Source?
And what do you intend to do about it?
More of the Faelehgre had darted toward him, so that he was now surrounded by at least ten, a few others remaining at a distance. All of them were pulsing with anger or concern, a strange echo of the light from the Well beneath them. Colin’s gaze shot from one to the other where they hovered.
“If I didn’t awaken this… this Source, then it must have been one of the Wraiths,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, reasonable. He hadn’t expected to be attacked by the Faelehgre when he arrived.
Walter.
Not necessarily, Ulyssa, Osserin replied.
He’s the one who started all of this! He’s the one who broke the Shadows free!
“But we know he has used the other Wraiths to awaken other Wells. Even so, I still believe that Walter is behind this new awakening.” A wave of satisfaction flooded the air, followed by disgruntlement.
Colin brushed it aside. “I’ve come from the northern wastes, where I felt the new Well through the Lifeblood. I know that it lies to the east, beyond the dwarren plains in the Thalloran Wastelands, but that is all. The currents flowing from these Wells to it were too strong for me to discover more than that. What can you tell me about this new Well? Why do you call it the Source?”
Because it is so powerful, one of the Faelehgre moaned from behind the front ranks.
At least three of the Faelehgre flared in annoyance, Osserin darting to the front of the group directly before Colin.
When the Well was first awakened, the pulse from the Lifeblood shook the entire city. Towers collapsed, columns cracked, and streets buckled. It was the strongest pulse any of us have ever witnessed. Its magnitude indicates that the Well that was awakened is large, much greater than any other Well since Walter began the process.
We sent Faelehgre to the nearest Wells to confirm what we found here: all of the Wells are connected, and all of them are now part of this larger source of Lifeblood to the east. Somehow, the two systems were separated in the past, our system blocked from the other. But that blockage has been removed. We’re now all part of the same system, feeding off of the mingled Lifeblood. But the removal of the blockage has thrown the two systems off-balance.
“I know all this,” Colin cut in, frustrated. “I sensed it all through the Well in the north. I’ve seen the effects in the storms on the plains and the resurgence of the Drifters. What I need to know is what needs to be done to stop it, to restore the balance.”
All of the Faelehgre hovered in uncertain silence for a long moment.
Until the one Osserin had called Ulyssa drifted forward.
There are only two options we can see, he said. Either the blockage that was removed needs to be restored.…
Or someone must go to the Source and restore the balance from there.