Six weeks later, he stood at the edge of the main road leading down to Portstown, shocked into immobility.
“How could I have missed all this?” He drew in a deep breath, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, and let it out in a heavy sigh. What lay before him had no resemblance whatsoever to the town that he’d left behind so many years before.
Where the port used to be-the docks where the riot broke out, the gallows where Sartori had threatened to hang him in order to gain his father’s cooperation for the expedition to the east-he could see building after building, smoke rising from the chimneys of most, black and sooty, the stone used in their construction old and gray, leeched of life. Warehouses and stockyards, he guessed, where most of the dirty, hard work got done. The buildings blocked the shoreline, but he could see the masts and rigging of ships lined up and down the waterfront, ships larger than any he’d seen before, judging by the number of masts and the complexity of the rigging.
The buildings farther south, near where the river drained into the bay, were newer. The road led down through estates and residential buildings to this section, and even from this distance Colin could tell that he’d find the marketplace there. He could see gaps between the buildings for fountains and plazas, and piercing through the rooftops here and there were the spires of churches, some topped by Diermani’s tilted cross, others by winged statues or simple poles, banners flapping in the breeze from the ocean. Across the inlet, he could see the swath of sand that protected the town from storm surges, what they’d called the Strand.
But the thick wall of stone and the buildings to the north of the town drew Colin’s attention most. Behind the defensive wall, he could see the square towers of a large building, a manse of some sort, although twice the size of anything he’d seen before, and the angled rooftops of a few smaller buildings, including another church. The manse stood where Lean-to would have been, on the hill overlooking the town.
As Colin watched, the gates of the outer wall opened, and a large force of men on horseback emerged, standards flying. Guardsmen, what Colin would have called the Armory in the Portstown of his time, but what he’d heard others refer to as the Legion since he’d reached the first human outpost of Farpoint at the top of the Escarpment, where he’d traded for coin and information. His eyes narrowed as the group descended from the walled manse down into the city proper, heading toward the ships. The banners catching the wind were half red, half yellow, the field cut diagonally. He couldn’t make out the symbol in the center, but he’d be willing to wager it was a shield.
The same banner he’d seen on the battlefield outside the forest.
The guardsmen vanished among the buildings, and Colin turned back to his study of the city. His hand massaged the grip on his staff with nervous tension, and he could feel a tightness at the base of his back, in the center of his shoulders.
“What am I doing here?” he whispered to himself.
He didn’t know. He’d expected Portstown to be similar to what he remembered, not… this.
He glanced around at the people passing on the road, a cart loaded down with late autumn squash, a man on horseback with an escort of uniformed guardsmen. No one had noticed him. No one had even looked in his direction, not even the few men and boys traveling on foot.
Loneliness settled on his shoulders, the weight of over sixty years of isolation suddenly too great a burden. His shoulders slumped. He didn’t belong here. Portstown had changed too much. But if not here, and not within the forest, then where?
As if in answer, his stomach seized. Fear lanced through him as he clamped his hand to his side, the heat already building. Before he’d left, he’d thought the pain of withdrawal from the Well and the influence of the Lifeblood had been bad but tolerable. He’d discovered otherwise on the plains when the first seizure hit. It had begun like this, a cramp, followed by the searing heat. He’d stumbled to the grass, lips pressed tight, as the pain increased, the heat seeping outward through his side into his chest, into his left arm and his legs, until it had become too much to bear, and he’d collapsed to the ground, seizures wracking his body.
When the seizure had finally faded, he’d lain in the grass, staring up at the sky, muscles trembling, too weak to move. Not even when a brown plains snake slid over his body, split tongue tasting his sweat in the air a moment before moving on. He’d lain there for nearly a day, unable to move, wondering if the dwarren would find him and what they would do to him if they did. But finally the weakness had passed, and he’d struggled to his feet.
He’d almost drunk from his stash of Lifeblood then. The vial had been in his shaking hands, open and halfway to his mouth, before the unclaimed vow slipped from beneath the neck of his robe and glinted in the sunlight. As tremors coursed through his body, he’d forced himself to put the vial away, the smell of the Lifeblood-earth and leaves and snow-so sharp and tempting that he actually moaned.
He’d had two more seizures before reaching Farpoint and human lands, then another on the trek from the Escarpment here. He’d been able to stumble off the road and out of sight for the last one.
But now, as the heat intensified enough to drive him to one knee, leaning on his staff for support, he could hear the people around him. The creak of the farmer’s cart and the clop of the horses’ hooves sharpened as he fought back the pain. He gasped as it threatened to escalate and break into another seizure, but before it crested, he felt the heat beginning to ebb. He brought his hand away from his side and held onto the staff, resting his forehead against it. Sweat made his grip slick, but as the pain receded, he used the staff to pull himself back onto his feet.
One of the uniformed guardsmen watched him with concern, but Colin motioned that he was fine. He massaged his side, wondering if the lack of a seizure meant he was getting better, if the pull of the Well was lessening.
Then his stomach growled.
A thin smile quirked his lips, but it didn’t linger.
“Food,” he said to himself, then sighed again. “Food first and then…”
He stilled, then shrugged and headed down the gravel road into the city proper.
He found himself drawn to the older part of the city. He wanted to see if there was anything left of the Portstown he knew. The imperative had even overridden his stomach.
He went to the shipyards first, but there was no sign of the wide plank docks where the riot had broken out between the Armory and Shay and his men. Instead, he stood on a long cobbled street before a massive stone wall, the street and wall itself built out into the water. He placed his hands against the damp stone, felt its chill in his fingers, then let his hand drop. Glancing up, he could see the spits of ships jutting out over the top of the wall. Based on their height, he guessed that the ocean itself lay directly on the far side of the wall, that if the stone were to break, seawater would pour into the street and flood the lower wharf.
He shuddered, then stepped into shadow as a door in the wall twenty paces away opened suddenly; men and women dressed in vests and coats in a style Colin didn’t recognize stepped out onto the cobbles. Their undershirts were a vibrant white, stark against the dirt that coated the buildings, but no one seemed to notice the grime. Carriages were waiting for some of them, the horses stamping the stone impatiently, heads rattling their traces. Others branched away in various directions. Those with the finer clothes were followed by men and women dressed more conservatively, in clothes Colin found more familiar: shirts and breeches, patched and stained in places. Once the carriages pulled away, their drivers tch- ing the horses into motion, the yard workers in even rougher clothing, most without shirts, began unloading the cargo, wagons arriving to take the carriages’ places, hauling the crates and barrels away into the city.
Colin turned to look down the stretch of the street and saw numerous doorways all along its length; he shook his head. “Far larger than the wharf from my day,” he murmured, then turned his attention inland. He didn’t know how the streets were set up, didn’t even know if he was close to where the wharf he remembered had been, so he chose a street at random.
As soon as he entered the inner reaches of the wharf, he adjusted his pack and hugged the walls of the buildings, wary of the number of people. He made it down to the next street, and then he drew to a halt.
The closeness-of the people, of the buildings-and the sheer volume and activity began to close in on him, crushing him. His chest tightened, and his breath began to quicken. Desperation pulled at his shoulders, until he finally glanced up, into the sky, into its blueness, its openness high above. He drew that openness into his lungs, tasted the odor of the city along with it, and wrinkled his nose.
It reminded him of the rougher part of Lean-to, where Shay and the conscripts had stayed, only the stench was a hundred times worse. But it calmed him.
He turned back to the street and watched the crowd as they bustled here and there, entering taverns and shops. Then he reentered the flow, passing a bakery, the smells of fresh bread making his stomach growl yet again, but he didn’t stop. He turned at the next corner, bumped into someone and apologized without looking up. He caught a few people staring at him strangely, brows creased, and he realized that no one else wore anything remotely close to robes, but he ignored them. He’d brought a shirt and breeches, but he’d never changed; he wasn’t comfortable in them anymore. He caught a few other stares, more predatory, and he tugged his pack closer, shifting his grip on the staff. He had nothing that they’d want, but he knew that didn’t mean anything.
And then the buildings fell away, abruptly, like the Faelehgre buildings that had surrounded the Well. The street emptied out into a small square, a rectangular area filled with grass and trees protected by a low wrought- iron fence. From the sides of the square streets branched off in every direction between yet more buildings, and to the right Colin sighed, an ache in his heart easing.
The church he remembered from Portstown, the church he’d halted in front of before hunting down Walter and his cronies with his sling, stood alone, as if carved out of the facade of the surrounding city. He smiled at the memory and moved across the street and around the park. The wooden fence had been replaced by iron, and the stone of the building had aged, but otherwise it was exactly as he remembered it. He could even see a few headstones in the graveyard behind it.
Without thought, he passed through the open gate and ascended the stone steps. The vestibule was as he remembered it, with the intricate latticework of wood separating the entry from the sanctuary itself, but the smells had changed. Dust hung in the air, scented with old wood and decades of burned tallow and smoke and incense. Pews lined the walkway leading to the altar, the tilted cross still draped with white and red cloth at the far end. Colin moved down the aisle, glancing toward the stained-glass windows now darkened with layers of soot and age. He halted at the railing before the altar, the wood floor creaking beneath his weight, and stared up at the cross.
He thought about his mother and father, about everyone in the wagon expedition who had died outside the forest, and he signed himself. “May Holy Diermani protect you all. You deserved a better burial than I gave you.” And as he stood there, he thought of Patris Brindisi, who’d offered him sanctuary on that day so long ago. He wondered whether, if he’d accepted that offer, everything would have been different. He might never have attacked Walter and been arrested. His father might never have been forced into leading the expedition onto the plains.
Karen might have lived.
His hand rose to clasp the unclaimed vow that hung around his neck.
“Have you come seeking solace?”
Colin spun, half expecting to see Brindisi, but it was another priest, young, the white shawl of a Hand draped around his neck. He thought of Domonic and smiled tightly. “No. I don’t think solace will ever be mine. I came for the… memories.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved down the central aisle, past the Hand of Diermani, back out into the sunlight. He hesitated on the steps of the church, his hand falling away from the vow, and turned toward where the Proprietor’s manse had been.
The building still stood, surrounded by a stone wall, a few trees visible inside. But when he approached the gate, a metal placard next to it stated that it was a mercantile house. Peering through the iron gates, he could see that changes had been made to the facade and windows, and a new stable had been built off to one side. Where the old stable had been now stood a large warehouse.
He stepped back from the gate and oriented himself again.
“The church, Sartori’s manse-” he spun in place and pointed with his staff “-the gallows.”
There were no gallows there now, only a solid row of buildings.
He wandered across the square and stopped before a tavern, on the ground where Sartori had threatened to hang him. Someone brushed past him, opened the door, and sounds spilled out-the clank of glassware, the raucous noise of voices. The scent of roasting meat hit him like a slingstone to the gut. Before he entered the tavern, he glanced up at the sign posted over the door: The Hang-man’s Noose.
He shivered as he stepped into the tavern’s interior.
The first burst of noise almost made him retreat, but he straightened his shoulders and made his way to a far corner table, half-hidden in shadows. The reek of spilled ale and old sweat and the scent of cooked meat dominated the room full of tables and chairs. A bar stood against the back wall, most of the patrons around it, although a few were gathered near the hearth, where a man sat on a stool telling tales.
Colin hadn’t been seated for more than a few heartbeats when a young boy, no more than twelve, appeared at its edge dressed in a serving apron.
“What can I git fur ya, oldster?”
He stared at Colin with lively brown eyes, his light hair tousled and wild, his shirt stained with grease.
Colin frowned and leaned his staff against the wall. He fished a coin from his pack, aware that the boy watched him closely, then set it on the table, making certain he kept his hand on it. “Whatever food this will pay for.”
The boy nodded and slipped away. Colin folded the coin back into his hand and turned his attention to the storyteller.
“… They met at the Escarpment, all three armies come together at last-King Maarten’s Legion, the Alvritshai White Phalanx, and the dwarren Riders.” A low grumble rolled through those listening, a rumble of hatred and anticipated anger. The storyteller nodded, his face grim. “Yes. You know the story, you know the betrayal.” He paused, let their anger simmer, then continued with a frown.
“The three forces met, the Alvritshai coming from the north, the dwarren from the east, and the Legion from the south. It was to be a decisive battle, a final battle! For unknown to the dwarren, Maarten had met with the Tamaell of the Alvritshai in secret and forged an alliance, one that would bind the Alvritshai to the colonies, and would allow us to finally seize control of the edge of the plains and drive the dwarren back. Back into their burrows and tent cities in the deep plains.” Those around the storyteller grumbled some more.
“It was with this alliance in place that the Legion took the field. King Maarten led them to the edge of the hill overlooking the flat, his heir, Stephan, his trusted advisers, and his councilmen beside him, banners snapping in the winds blowing from the plains. He came with three thousand men, with two hundred horses, and the hope of the Provinces in his heart.
“Across the flat, the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx already waited, pennons flying, all of the Houses represented, nearly two thousand strong. When Maarten crested the hill, Tamaell Fedorem flashed the signal indicating that all was ready, that all was well, a sign that the alliance still stood. Everyone on the ridge saw it, and as the sun finally pulled away from the horizon, they heard the thundering approach of the Riders. A thousand gaezel-more!-dwarren astride their backs, emerged from the eastern plains, a storm of dust rising behind them to cloud the sky, golden in the sun’s light. They charged the flat, as if they intended to fling themselves off of the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west, but at the last moment they swerved, the gaezels turning in a sharp, smooth curve back on themselves, the dwarren erupting in a cacophonous battle roar. Swinging around, their cry echoing across the breadth of the plains, they came to a halt, their line curved to face both the Legion and the Alvritshai’s Phalanx, their ranks falling silent.
“The men in the Legion shifted at this display, disturbed, but the King did not quail. With a nod of his head, a message was passed down the line, colored flags flashing in the brightening morning. The men stirred again, readying their weapons, tightening the clasps of armor, of shield, testing the strings of bows. Horns blew across the field from the Alvritshai, but Maarten kept his eyes on the dwarren, on their shifting ranks of gaezels. He caught the eye of his nearest adviser, and at his nod of readiness, he drew his sword. Steel flashed in the light, and the Legion fell silent behind him, hushed, waiting for the signal.”
As if mimicking the storyteller’s words, his small audience fell silent. Most were leaning forward in their seats, alcohol-hazed eyes wide, shoulders tensed. The storyteller looked over them all, his arms outstretched, as if holding the entire battlefield, armies and all, before him, a satisfied smile on his face.
“And then,” he whispered, a chair creaking as he paused and someone leaned farther forward, “as the Alvritshai horns blew, as they’d agreed upon at their secret meeting, Maarten dropped his sword.”
The men surrounding the storyteller sighed, settling back. But Colin noted that not all of those in the tavern were enthralled. Some sat far back and snorted at the reaction of the others, lifting tankards to their lips. Others merely shook their heads.
“The King’s army charged down the hill onto the flat, heading directly for the dwarren, letting out a battle cry of their own to rival the Riders. And simultaneously, the Alvritshai Phalanx, their long white pennons flaring out behind them, charged from the north. The dwarren didn’t wait for either army. The gaezels, heads bent forward, wicked horns down, met them on the flat. It’s said the clash of their weapons when they struck could be heard a day’s walk distant. It’s said the ground itself trembled. It’s said the sun vanished from the sky, lost behind the black cloud of dust that rose from the tread of thousands of feet. And I believe it, for it was a meeting of the three races, with the best of their men, their bravest warriors.
“And it was a trap.” At this, everyone in the tavern growled, and the storyteller smiled grimly. “Not the trap you think. No. Not yet. A different trap, set up by King Maarten and Tamaell Fedorem to lure the dwarren Riders to the edge of the Escarpment.” The storyteller’s smile faded, his eyes darkening with anger. “But it was indeed a trap for King Maarten as well, although none knew it except the traitorous Alvritshai.”
The storyteller spat this last remark, and everyone in the room burst out with their own curses, some literally spitting to the side.
“Maarten rode down onto the flat and fought like a madman, his blade bloodied in instants, his surcoat stained,” the storyteller continued, rising from his seat as his voice rose, his arms miming sword thrusts and parries, not letting the riled patrons settle back down. “He roared as he drove into the dwarren ranks, slicing at the dwarren warriors, at their horned mounts, cutting flesh and sinew, severing arms and heads with mighty strokes, threshing a path through them as if they were grain and he a scythe. His men called out challenges behind him, some falling to blade and spear, those that followed pressing forward to take their place. Archers filled the skies with arrows until they blotted out the sun as effectively as the dust, and the dwarren… the dwarren fell, crushed between the two forces-Maarten and the Legion on one side, the Alvritshai White Phalanx on the other. Bodies littered the field, were trampled as the armies pressed together. For a moment it appeared that the dwarren might hold, but then their wardrums shuddered through the air, signaling a retreat.
“Maarten heard the order, but he’d be damned if the dwarren escaped him. He intended this battle to be the last. He intended the ages-long war among the three races to end, here, now, at the Escarpment, and so he spun his horse. But he was trapped at the forefront of the fray, his men so eager to fight that they’d blocked his retreat. So he bellowed to his son, Stephan, the heir to the throne of the eastern ports, his command heard over the clash of the battle, ‘They cannot be allowed to retreat! Stop them! This ends here!’
“And young Stephan heard him. Not yet eighteen, still he brandished his sword, already slick with blood, and called, ‘Fellow Legion, follow me!’ He charged his steed to the eastern flank, even as the dwarren began to break away, as their gaezels began their unnaturally swift turns to head back to the vastness and safety of the plains. Hundreds followed the heir, but he fell on the first of the retreating dwarren himself, and he held them. He held them back so that the rest of his force could arrive to support him. He held them, and then he held the line. No! He advanced the line! He pushed the dwarren back into the Legion’s main force, back into the Alvritshai Phalanx. Desperation caused the dwarren to hold for long moments, their retreat severed, but then their lines began to waver. Taking advantage, Stephan shoved them farther back. Harried on the east by Stephan, on the north by the Alvritshai, and the south by the King, the only available escape for the dwarren was the west… where the cliffs of the Escarpment waited.
“And that was where the combined armies forced the dwarren. They herded them like cattle, and as they were driven to the edge, the lower plains shadowed far below, the dwarren became frenzied. Step by slow step, they gave ground, their gaezels going mad, lethal horns skewering man and dwarren and Alvritshai indiscriminately, and still they were pressed back, Stephan and Maarten and Fedorem closing ranks. Step by slow step, the cursed dwarren-who’d hounded our every step onto the plains, who’d slaughtered entire trading parties, who’d returned the severed heads of the delegations sent to negotiate trade pacts between the races- those cursed dwarren were driven back, and back, and back…
“Until they were driven off the edge of the Escarpment, to fall to their deaths below.”
The entire room sighed with intense satisfaction, only faintly tinged with horror. Colin shuddered, the hatred of the dwarren in the room almost tangible. An unwavering hatred that crawled across his skin, as black as the spot on his arm, as sickening.
And yet he understood that hatred, felt it himself, in his bones. Because of what the dwarren had done to the wagon trains, his own and the one they’d found near the underground river. They’d slaughtered everyone in that wagon train, herded them together and killed them-men, women, and children-with no mercy. They’d burned the wagons to the ground. They would have done the same to Colin’s group, would have succeeded if the Shadows hadn’t gotten to them first.
He found his hand gripping the coin so hard the edges bit into his palm and he forced himself to relax. At the hearth, the storyteller let the vindictive murmurs rise, but he interrupted them before they could reach their height.
“But that wasn’t the end. Not the end that Maarten envisioned anyway. Oh, no. Because even as the two forces-Alvritshai and men-stood at the cliffs, staring down into the shadow of the bluff, where the dwarren Riders lay in bloody, broken heaps, even as Maarten drew back from the edge and turned toward Tamaell Fedorem with a triumphant smile, the Alvritshai betrayed him.
“Fedorem’s escort, his most trusted advisers, his closest lords, leaped forward, daggers raised. Stephan cried out, his shout heard across the battlefield, as the Alvritshai fell on the King. The heir tried to kick his steed forward, but he was restrained by his own men, even as a cry of outrage rose from the Legion. Before they could react, the Alvritshai Phalanx let loose a rain of arrows, cutting down hundreds in a single volley, catching the Legion unprepared. The group nearest to Maarten charged the attackers, and then both armies were engulfed in a melee-not a battle but a brawl-as the Legion tried to retrieve their fallen King’s body. Stephan tried to join them yet again, but he was hauled to safety by his own advisers, pulled off his horse out of sight of the Alvritshai archers and dragged to the back of the Legion as they retreated, Maarten’s body in tow.
“It was a black day, a bitter day for the Provinces. We lost our King to betrayal, to the Alvritshai.” He whispered the name like a curse. “But it was a triumphant day as well, for the entire coast. For at his death, Maarten claimed the defeat of the dwarren Riders in his name, for his lineage.”
“But not the defeat of the dwarren,” the man nearest to Colin murmured, his voice no more than a whisper, so low that Colin doubted anyone else had heard.
Silence reigned in the tavern but for the faint sounds of tankards being raised in salute and a few quiet and respectful murmurs or prayers.
Then the young boy reappeared and laid a plank of meat and cheese and roasted onion down in front of Colin, along with a tankard of ale as well. “Too bad ‘tisn’t all true,” he huffed, softly enough that Colin almost didn’t hear him.
“What do you mean?”
The boy eyed him warily. “’Tisn’t all true, least not how my grandda tells it.”
Colin frowned. “And how would your grandda know?”
The boy snorted. “He wuz there! Right there, in tha King’s own men at tha end o’ tha attack. He says ‘twasn’t all of the Alvritshai that attacked, only sum o’ them, that Fedorem seemed as shocked as any o’ them. He says a few a tha lords e’en tried to stop it-Lord Vaersoom and Lord Aeren. But ‘twas too late by then. Tha armies wuz already brawlin’.”
Colin stilled. “Did you say Aeren?”
“Lord Aeren,” the boy said, nodding. “And Lord Vaersoom. There’s a group of tha white- skinned bastards in tha city right now, jus come in on a ship.”
Colin thought about the group of guardsmen he’d seen emerge from the walled manse, headed toward the wharf.
“Is Aer-Lord Aeren among them?”
The boy shrugged in irritation. “Could be, could be not. Not likely to come here.” Then he tucked one hand beneath his arm and held out the other expectantly, eyes wide.
Colin grunted and handed over the coin, and the boy was gone in the blink of an eye. He turned his attention back to the storyteller, but the crowd had tired of histories and were rowdily demanding a ribald song of mirth and mayhem, so he began to eat.
“Aeren,” he murmured, letting the bursts of laughter from the other patrons roll over him as he thought about the plains, about the Alvritshai he’d met so long ago. He might have written the boy’s story off as nonsense-a grandfather’s interpretation of the battle, told to impress his grandson-except he’d seen the slightly contemptuous faces of the other men in the tavern. The older men, the ones with scars on their faces and the habits of fighting men, their movements careful, stances too casual, even here, relaxed with drink. Those around the hearth were younger, quick to judge and eager to accept.
He wondered if the Aeren from the tale was the same Aeren he’d met so long ago on the plains.
There was one way to find out.
Colin eased a little closer to the main thoroughfare where the delegation from the Alvritshai was rumored to pass on their way to their ship at the harbor. He’d missed the initial procession to the Governor’s estate, the manse he’d seen from the ridge when he’d first viewed the city, and no one from the delegation had been spotted outside the walls of the estate since.
A wise decision, Colin thought, glancing around at those gathered on both sides of the street. Most had come to gawk at the foreigners, at their strange skin and wild clothes, some with their children in tow. “Careful of their eyes,” an old man in the alley next to Colin hissed. “If they catch your gaze, they’ll suck out your soul!”
A middle-aged woman scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They just hold you with their eyes; it’s the knife to the gut when you can’t move that takes your soul!”
Colin’s brow creased in irritation. He pushed his staff forward between two younger men-their faces taut and angry, arms crossed over their chests-and slid in between them. He now stood at the mouth of the side street, barely more than an alley, but it was enough for him to see down the thoroughfare if he craned his neck. He hadn’t managed to find out from the citizens of Portstown if Lord Aeren was part of the group; they only knew it was an Alvritshai delegation, come to see the Governor to discuss trade agreements.
Colin settled back slightly. Provinces, Governors, and Kings. He’d learned enough in the past few hours to know that shortly after the wagon group had headed east-within a year if he’d pieced all of the information together correctly-outright war had broken out in Andover, the Feud over the Rose and its powers coming to a head, and the Proprietors of the colonies had been drawn into it. But by then the refugees from the war had grown desperate. Small groups had risen up against the Proprietors, groups like those in Lean-to, led by men like Shay and Karl and composed mostly of criminals and political dissidents, only with four or five times the number of members by then. The Court thought they could crush the rebellions. But the war for the Rose had sapped their resources. The Proprietors found themselves abandoned, the Court’s attention completely on their own lands in Andover, on preserving their standing in the Court itself while still pursuing their bid for the Rose.
The “minor” rebellions became a full- fledged revolution. The Proprietors attempted to pull together to defend their lands, but they’d allowed too many refugees into their towns. And this time the dissidents and rabble- rousers had the support of the laborers and craftsmen and merchants. The Proprietors had counted on their Armory to protect them, but in the end…
In the end, the Armory wasn’t as loyal as the Proprietors believed.
The Proprietors fell, or vanished. No one knew what had happened to Sartori, which Colin found… disappointing. He could go back and find out, sink back, but he satisfied himself with knowing that he’d been removed, most likely killed by Karl and the men who’d led the revolt.
Ahead, on the thoroughfare, a ripple passed through the crowd. Colin straightened, pushing away from the stone of the building at his back. He would have stepped forward, but the two men he’d passed to reach the position pressed forward instead, shoving people aside, their faces intent. They kept their attention on the street, where the crowd had begun to sigh with passing whispers of awe and wonder, but they pushed farther down the block, joining two other men at the next corner.
Colin frowned as he saw something pass from one of the men’s hands to another, something narrow and thin.
The crowd ahead parted as the Legion forced a path through the center of the street. The guardsmen were there to hold the press of people back, except that as the horses of the delegation appeared, those in the crowd, full of whispers and murmurs a moment before, fell silent and withdrew. Not in fear, but respect. It left the members of the Legion uncomfortable, alone in the space between the citizens of Portstown and the delegation itself. Their hands fell to the hilts of their swords for reassurance, their eyes on the crowd, flicking from face to face.
When the delegation came into full view, Colin caught his breath.
These were not the Alvritshai he remembered from the plains. Aeren and his escort had been rough, deadly, exotic, but practical. He remembered their intensity, their curiosity, and their profound respect for the people in the wagon train.
These Alvritshai were also intense. But they radiated a stiff formality and an intangible aloofness. The rough practical clothing from the plains had been replaced with soft, colorful silks sewn with severe lines, emphasizing the Alvritshai’s angular features, their tense postures, heads held high, eyes gazing down from the elevated height of their mounts. The expressions on the guardsmen in front were close to sneers, mouths drawn down in distaste, and they kept their eyes forward, not deigning to look to either side. Colin thought of what the old man and woman had said about their eyes and wondered if the Alvritshai knew what the common people thought But then he saw the Alvritshai lords the guardsmen protected.
Colin let his held breath out with a sigh, felt his heart falter with relief.
It was Aeren. Older than on the plains, taller and hardened somehow, more mature, but not as old as Colin had expected, not as worn. He kept his eyes forward as well, not looking to either side, but his expression was set, registering neither distaste nor scorn. It was merely… regretful, as if he were enduring what must be endured. He was dressed in a deep blue tunic, slashed along the torso, with a vibrant red fabric beneath. He wore the same band of gold on his forearm Colin remembered from the plains, although it couldn’t be the same one. This one appeared larger and contained more writing.
Another lord rode next to him, dressed in a warm maroon with gold accents-buttons and braided cords. Behind the two lords rode personal guardsmen, and with a start Colin recognized Eraeth. The guardsman had aged more than Aeren, with new scars on his face. But if Aeren had been at the battle the storyteller had related at the Hangman’s Noose, then no doubt Eraeth had been there as well.
But it was Aeren who caught Colin’s attention, who held it. Because since he’d left the forest, he had found nothing familiar, aside from the church. That lack had settled into his bones, an ache that he hadn’t even recognized until he saw the Alvritshai lord.
He stepped forward, only half aware of what he’d done, not certain what he intended to do And out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement, motion where the crowd should have been still.
It happened fast. The four men Colin had noticed earlier broke through the edge of the crowd. He heard one of them bellow, “Traitorous bastards!” saw the flicker of knives, the deadlier glint of sunlight on a crossbow-a bolt, the slim shaft he’d seen being passed from hand to hand had been a crossbow bolt-and then the snick of the release, the bolt flying too fast for the eye to see.
Someone in the Alvritshai entourage roared, a sound of shock and pain and rage. The thick scent of blood punched through the stench of sea salt, sweat, and smoke from the city.
The crowd broke, screams rising, the Alvritshai Phalanx a flicker of fluid movement, no longer aloof, no longer pretentious, the Legion sent to protect them hesitating. Aeren and those in the Alvritshai party were lost from sight as the Alvritshai pulled the lords from their horses and surrounded them, but he could see the four men as they charged the Alvritshai line. They launched themselves into defending Alvritshai guardsmen as the Legion reacted, but slowly, almost leisurely. Another crossbow bolt sped into the fray, and an Alvritshai guardsman fell. The three men with knives clawed at the edges of the wall of bodies surrounding the lords, too close for the Alvritshai to draw their long, thin blades.
And then an Alvritshai guard pulled a dagger and stabbed it deep into the side of one of the attacking men. The man reared back, his scream setting the hairs on Colin’s arms on end. With a vicious twist, the Alvritshai withdrew the blade, blood flying, and as the body fell, the leader of the attacking group swore in frustration.
As if it were an order, the attackers broke off and fled, two heading toward the street one block away, the other bolting down the thoroughfare in the opposite direction.
Colin hesitated a moment-enough to see that the Legion hadn’t yet moved to follow, the men looking to their commander; enough to see that the Alvritshai were focused on protecting the lords And then Colin spun, dodged into the street at his back that ran parallel to the one the attackers had taken. Rage burned in his lungs, lay thick on his tongue. The Legion had expected the attack, had barely moved to halt it, and were now allowing the culprits to escape. They intended to let the men escape.
But Colin could still smell the blood. Possibly Aeren’s blood. He hadn’t seen Aeren fall, couldn’t tell who within the group had been struck, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen the expression on the Legion commander’s face, the same expression he’d seen on Walter’s face as the Proprietor’s son beat him senseless in the dirt streets of Portstown, the same expression he’d seen on Sartori’s face when the Proprietor blackmailed his father into accepting the lead role in the expedition east: a grim satisfaction and the knowledge that there would be no consequences.
Colin shoved forward through the fleeing people, pushing, aware that the crowd moved too slowly as he rounded the corner and cut left onto the cross street, rage driving him. He burst into the next intersection, turned to see the two fleeing men charging toward him, also moving slowly, too slowly, as if they were running through mud. Colin ground to a halt, felt a familiar pressure shove him from behind, and staggered as the world settled…
And realized everyone hadn’t been moving slowly. No. The entire world had slowed. He’d slowed it, reached out without thought and forced it to slow in order to get to the intersection ahead of the attackers.
The implications of what he’d done stunned him. But there was no time for thought. The two men were almost on him, shock registering on their faces a moment before Colin’s staff lashed out. He drove it hard into the leader’s groin, and the man folded over with a strangled grunt; then he pulled it back and pivoted the other end so it connected with the second man’s head.
They fell like sacks of potatoes, the leader groaning, curled into a tight ball. The other simply crumpled, unconscious, his knife striking the cobbles with a brittle clang.
Colin drew up straight, gasping, his heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his neck, rage tingling along his arms. He wiped sweat from his face, coughed as he tried to swallow and breathe at the same time, then leaned heavily on his staff. A few stragglers from the crowd streamed past on either side, giving Colin and the bodies a wide berth, but he ignored their sharp gestures and fierce whispers.
At the end of the street, where it intersected with the thoroughfare, members of the Alvritshai Phalanx suddenly appeared. They poured between the buildings, swords drawn, faces black with intent, the Legion a step behind.
They halted when they saw Colin standing over the bodies.
Someone stepped to the forefront of the Alvritshai-Eraeth-and said something in the Alvritshai language that Colin didn’t catch. He held his blade before him, his eyes locked on Colin’s, and for a moment-no more than a breath-Colin felt a thrill of fear as he considered the possibility that what the old man and woman had said was true about Alvritshai eyes.
But then he realized there was no recognition in Eraeth’s gaze, and the moment broke.
“What happened here?” the commander of the Legion barked, moving forward to stand a few paces ahead, but to one side, of Eraeth.
Colin tried to answer but couldn’t. He still hadn’t caught his breath.
The commander’s eyes flicked from Colin to the surrounding citizens, trapped against the side of the street, none of them daring to move. Not with both the Legion and the Phalanx present.
“He stopped them,” a woman finally said, nodding toward Colin. When the commander’s gaze fell on her, she hesitated, then straightened, her shoulders back, and took a small step forward. “He came from the cross street there-like a blur, so fast I barely saw him-but then he was there, and he struck them both before they even had a chance to raise their knives.”
A few of the surrounding people nodded, murmuring to one another. The commander glared until they fell silent. The woman stepped back, her head bent but with a defiant look in her eyes, and then the commander stepped up to the two men on the ground. He stared at them a long moment, then shoved the leader over onto his back with his foot, the man still clutching his balls. The Legionnaire gave a snort of disgust.
Behind him, Eraeth lowered his blade. But he stiffened again as someone else pushed through the Alvritshai at his back.
Aeren. Unharmed.
Colin sagged in relief.
“What has happened here?” Aeren said, his Andovan precise, with only a hint of an accent.
The commander glared at Colin, then turned with a thin smile. “It appears that one of Portstown’s good citizens has kept the attackers from escaping.”
“How fortunate,” Aeren said. Colin thought the Alvritshai lord would add something else-he could see the intent in the narrowing of the lord’s eyes-but instead Aeren asked, “What do you intend to do with them?”
“Kill them,” Eraeth said, his voice flat, his eyes on the two men lying on the ground.
Aeren raised a hand in warning.
The commander’s smile vanished. “That’s not how things are done here in Portstown. In any of the Provinces. We aren’t barbaric. They will be arrested and tried before a judge.”
The Alvritshai bristled, Eraeth drawing a sharp breath to respond, but Aeren’s glance kept him silent.
“Very well,” Aeren said. “I leave them to your… judges.” His gaze shifted to Colin, took in his staff, his robe, glanced off his face And snapped back again. His brows narrowed, and he frowned.
Colin stepped forward, managed a weak, “Aeren-”
Then his stomach seized. Not with hunger but with the full force of the Lifeblood.
Colin cried out, a sound of denial and pain, both arms clutching his sides as he sank to his knees. He clenched his teeth, fought against the searing heat, against the sudden taste of blood in his mouth, against the narrowing vision, tried to keep himself upright and conscious…
But the pain overwhelmed him, so much worse than when he’d left the forest weeks before. He felt the cobbles scrape against his cheek as he collapsed, heard the shuffle of feet as he was surrounded, heard a babble of voices, both Alvritshai and Andovan, as the pain increased. He groaned, felt hands against his face, his chest, as they rolled him onto his back, heard the commander bark, “What’s happening?” from a distance. “Is he sick? Is it contagious?”
“Seizure,” Eraeth answered, his voice still flat, without a fleck of emotion, but he stood closer than the commander. Practically on top of him.
More voices, an argument, but Colin couldn’t follow it. A wave of heat and pain shoved the world away. Then:
“We’ll take him to the infirmary,” the commander said, grudgingly.
“No!” Aeren this time, not Eraeth. “We’ll take him with us.”
“Like hell you will,” the commander spat. “He’s a citizen of the Provinces!”
“He’s helped to subdue the men who threatened to take my life,” Aeren said, his voice taking on an edge. “I will not harm him. The honor of my House demands that I see to his welfare.”
Colin didn’t hear the commander’s response, only the sudden rise in volume as they argued. The taste of blood filled his mouth, its scent swelling and smothering his senses. He struggled against it, fought the expanding film of yellow over his vision, the sudden muted ringing in his ears that blocked out all sound Then the heat became too great, and everything went black.