“I told him not to bring the Dwarren here!” the Tamaell snarled, flinging the last sweaty article of clothing he’d worn beneath his armor to one side of the lantern-lit room as he emerged from a secondary room where he’d recently washed. He wore loose, clean clothes now, simple breeches and shirt, not the stylized outfits Aeren was used to seeing him in. The informality felt strange and uncomfortable.
He tried not to react as the Tamaell began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, ignoring the look Eraeth shot him from one side. Colin, seated on the other side, simply watched silently, not quite recovered from saving the Tamaea.
The Tamaell had controlled himself while they reached the tattered remains of the camp, had marshaled all of the Lords of the Evant into action to clean up and salvage what they could of the tents and supply wagons, over half of which were unscathed, including the wagon that Aeren had left with the contingent. He’d spent a long moment alone with the Tamaea before she took control of the medical teams tending to the wounded, paying close attention to those like the man who’d lost both legs to the occumaen and the woman who’d lost her arm. But during all of this, Aeren could tell the Tamaell had been fuming.
It had only been a matter of time. And privacy.
“I don’t believe the Tamaell Presumptive was given much choice,” Aeren ventured.
“Thaedoren and I discussed this at length. He was to meet with the dwarren, placate them, act humble or defiant, but he was to keep them away from the Escarpment! It should have been a simple task, after what happened to them the last time all three races met here!”
Aeren frowned. “It might have been simple, except for one thing.”
“What?” Fedorem growled, but it caught his attention. He stopped pacing, his black gaze leveled at Aeren.
“The sukrael.”
It surprised him. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. “What do the sukrael have to do with this?”
Aeren shifted where he sat, aware of the Tamaell’s eyes boring into him. He felt Colin stir to one side.
“The Tamaell Presumptive-”
“Thaedoren,” Fedorem said gruffly. “Call him Thaedoren here.”
Aeren nodded, although it made him even more uncomfortable. “Thaedoren informed them of the attacks in Licaeta. It appears there have been similar attacks on the dwarren, to the south and the east in particular. These attacks are more serious than those in Licaeta, to the extent that the dwarren have been forced to turn their attention toward protecting themselves from the sukrael.”
Fedorem had bowed his head in thought. “So when you approached them with the possibility of peace-”
“It came at an auspicious time for them, yes.”
“So they actually intended to form some type of agreement with us? A treaty of some sort?”
Aeren nodded. “Yes.”
Fedorem continued pacing, mumbling to himself. “Thaedoren didn’t believe it. He thought it was a trick.”
Aeren thought about Thaedoren standing on the rise before the meeting tent, frowning down at the dwarren encampment in consternation. “I believe the dwarren convinced him otherwise.”
Fedorem drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a sigh, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do the dwarren know why the sukrael can suddenly move beyond their usual boundaries? Those boundaries have remained stable for generations, hundreds of years at least. Lotaern has told me of your claims that the sukrael have begun reawakening sarenavriell.”
Aeren felt sweat break out along his shoulders and in the palms of his hands. “The dwarren have no idea. They believe this may be a sign that the world is Turning. But what Lotaern told you was correct: the sukrael are reawakening the Wells.”
Fedorem nodded, as if he’d expected that answer.
Aeren hesitated, glancing once toward Colin; the human’s face was drained, leeched of color, the skin beneath his eyes bruised with exhaustion. Then Aeren said, “However, there is something more that we have discovered about the sukrael and the sarenavriell.”
Fedorem turned toward him with a questioning look.
“It has to do with the Wraiths, the creatures created by the sukrael. And with Lord Khalaek.”
And he told the Tamaell all that he’d told Thaedoren and had learned from the dwarren in turn. He told him of Colin’s powers, of Benedine, of how Colin had followed Benedine as he’d met with one of Khalaek’s aides, how that aide had reported back to Khalaek, and Benedine’s subsequent horrific death by the Wraith.
Fedorem remained silent the entire time he spoke, nodding or grimacing, but never once looking at Aeren, Colin, or Eraeth.
When Aeren finished, he said stiffly, “And you did not feel the need to inform me or the Evant of your suspicions regarding Khalaek?”
“As I told Thaedoren, I have mere suspicions, no proof. The Lords of the Evant would not accept the word of a human, not with the power that Khalaek wields.”
Fedorem nodded, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment of the explanation, Aeren couldn’t tell. Then the Tamaell turned to Colin.
“It seems the Alvritshai-that I-am in your debt,” he said, in perfect, uninflected Andovan. “The Tamaea explained that without your intervention, the occumaen would have claimed her.”
Colin seemed taken aback, although it was hard to tell through his exhaustion. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Finally, in a rough, weary voice, he managed to say, “There is no debt, Tamaell.”
“So you say, but what you have done will not be forgotten.” Fedorem drew breath, as if he’d say more, but then turned toward Aeren instead. “When do you expect my son and the dwarren to arrive?”
Aeren could hear the change in the Tamaell’s voice-a shift toward action, the discussion nearly over. “No more than two days from now. The dwarren are moving fast. The clan chiefs agreed to march ahead of the supply wagons, so the army will be arriving first, with the entire Gathering, and Thaedoren as escort.”
“Then we have little time to prepare,” Fedorem said, motioning for Aeren and the others to rise. “Wait here for a moment while I change.”
Aeren and Eraeth exchanged a glance as the Tamaell ducked back into the room beyond. “That went better than I expected,” Aeren said.
“It isn’t over yet,” Eraeth muttered.
Aeren frowned. “No, it isn’t.”
Colin wavered where he stood, and Aeren reached out to steady him. “You look pale.”
Colin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“Then rest. As soon as we leave the tent. The Tamaell and I will not need you.”
Colin nodded.
And then Fedorem returned, dressed now in the formal white and red of the Tamaell.
“Where are we going?” Aeren asked as Fedorem led them out of the tent, into the section of the camp that had not been torn apart by the occumaen.
“I want to speak to Lotaern about the sukrael and the sarenavriell,” the Tamaell said tightly.
“You should have come forward with this information,” the Tamaell said.
Aeren, Eraeth, the Tamaell, and Lotaern stood outside one of Lotaern’s tents as he watched the members of his Order picking through the debris left by the occumaen by torch and lantern light. Darkness had fallen, but the camp was still full of movement, fires scattered to either side of the occumaen’s path. A much larger blaze burned to the south, where the dead had been taken to be honored, blessed, and burned in order to return their souls to Aielan’s Light under the direction of the Order of the Flame’s acolytes. The black, oily smoke blotted out the stars as it drifted south, carried away from the camp by the faint breeze.
“And you would have listened?” Lotaern growled. His arms were crossed over his chest, his body turned slightly away from the Tamaell. “Listened to the word of a human, brought to you by one of the lords of the Evant, a known rival of Lord Khalaek?”
Aeren stiffened at the tension he felt between the two-Lotaern and the Tamaell-but forced himself to relax. The leader of the Order and the ruler of the Alvritshai had opposed each other since Fedorem had ascended within the Evant. Lotaern wanted more power, for himself and for the Order. Fedorem felt the Order had no place in the Evant. The argument was old and had lasted for decades.
“I would have listened to the Chosen of the Order!” Fedorem spat. “Especially regarding the sarenavriell and the sukrael. You are the holder of the Scripts. This is your domain.”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Lotaern turned and faced the Tamaell directly, one eyebrow raised. “The sarenavriell, the ruanavriell-all of the five powers-are under the mantle of Aielan’s Light and as such are the Order’s concern, not the Evant’s. Unless I have reason to believe they will somehow affect the Alvritshai directly, there is no need for me to report to you.”
“The Order does not consider the involvement of one of the Lords of the Evant a direct assault on the Alvritshai?”
Lotaern’s eyes narrowed. “I did not realize until recently that Lord Khalaek was involved,” he hissed. “If I had known…”
He trailed off in furious indignation.
The Tamaell straightened. “And what of these men?” Fedorem demanded, motioning toward the members of the Order working to clean up the damage done by the occumaen. “This Order of the Flame? The creation of an army within the Order, trained in secret? What is the Evant to make of that?”
His voice had gone dangerously quiet. Lotaern met the challenge silently, the two glaring at each other in the firelit darkness.
“You have overstepped the bounds of the Order,” Fedorem said quietly.
“We shall see,” Lotaern growled.
Aeren stepped between the two, catching their attention. “Right now-” he nodded to where Lotaern’s men were lifting up a collapsed tent, one of the men crying out and bending over a limp body “-it’s unimportant.”
Both Lotaern and Fedorem watched in silence as one of the members of the Order of the Flame grabbed the body beneath the arms and lifted, another taking the legs. They carried the man’s corpse to one side, out of the reach of the torchlight, murmuring the litany for the dead, their words fading into the night.
The animosity between the Chosen and the Tamaell lessened, Lotaern bowing his head a moment, eyes closed.
When he looked back up, he said to Aeren, “What have you told him?”
“Everything that Colin has told us.”
“Then there isn’t much more I can explain.” His voice was still cold. “The sarenavriell have existed since the Scripts were written, have existed since before the last time the world Turned, even before that.”
“And the sukrael?” Fedorem asked.
Lotaern hesitated. “It was thought that the sukrael and the Faelehgre had existed as long as the sarenavriell, that they had been established as guardians and protectors. That is how they are depicted in the Scripts.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. “But since then I’ve spoken to Shaevaren at length about his time in the forest, his time among the Faelehgre and near the sarenavriell. It seems that the sukrael and the Faelehgre are more prisoners than guardians. And now they’ve found a way to escape, in a limited way. I’m afraid there isn’t much more I can tell you than that. I do not know how they are awakening the sarenavriell. I do not know how they created the Wraiths.”
Fedorem frowned. “And what about the occumaen? Is there a connection between it and the sukrael?”
Lotaern grimaced, but then he paused, brow creasing in concentration. Almost reluctantly, he said, “It’s possible. The sukrael have been awakening powers long left dormant. It may be having unintended or unexpected consequences. But if there is a connection, I think it’s just that: unintended. I don’t think the sukrael are creating the occumaen on purpose. They have a different agenda.”
“It would explain why they’ve become so much larger,” Eraeth said from his place a step behind them all.
“And stronger,” Lotaern agreed. “It might also explain the increase in the number of unnatural storms on the plains as well.” He mulled the new idea over in his head, considering the possibilities.
Fedorem fell silent for a long moment. On the far horizon, purplish-blue lightning flickered in the darkness, although there were no clouds obscuring the sky yet.
Finally, Fedorem turned. “Why? What does Lord Khalaek hope to gain from an alliance with these… Wraiths?”
No one spoke. Lotaern looked at the ground. Fedorem eyed both the Chosen and Aeren, until Aeren finally said, “We don’t know.”
Fedorem considered this, mouth downturned. “Then it’s all speculation. With Benedine dead, there’s no way to link Khalaek to the Wraiths. It would be your word against his, one lord against another. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Do you believe them?” Moiran asked as she used shears to slice blankets and cloth into thin strips for bandages by lamplight, the tent draped in shadows. Most of the material had been scavenged from the camp, from all the Lords of the Evant and what remained of her own supplies.
On the far side of the small tent-much smaller than the one they’d been using-Fedorem halted his slow pace and settled into a small chair. “Do I believe that Khalaek would infiltrate the Order with a member from his own House? Yes. Do I believe that he’d use that to help him undermine my hold on the Evant, to extend his influence? Yes. Do I believe he’d work with these Wraiths, creatures that Aeren and Lotaern claim were created by the sukrael, creatures that no one has seen or heard of except for this Shaeveran, this human named Colin?” He shook his head, brow creased, but said nothing, one hand pinching his lower lip in thought, elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
Moiran frowned. “That human… is no longer human. He saved me from the occumaen.”
“So you said.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said sharply, and she stopped cutting, placing the shears in her lap so she could catch Fedorem’s eyes and hold them. “He didn’t simply drag me to safety. He halted time. He somehow stopped everything and gave us the chance to escape.” Something hot and hard rose up into her throat, and she felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. In a choked voice, she added, “I thought the occumaen would claim me. I could feel its breath upon me, the Breath of Heaven-”
She bowed her head, fought down the heated pressure in her chest. She’d avoided the thought of the occumaen all day by burying herself in the tending of the wounded, in their pain.
She heard Fedorem rise from his seat and approach, felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re saying he is one of the Aielan-aein, that he has been Touched by Aielan.”
Moiran gave a snorting laugh, the sound thick and phlegmy. “He is more than simply Touched. He has been gifted. None of the Aielan-aein within the Order could have done what he did. None of them have shown that kind of power, that kind of strength.” She paused, thinking of the terror she’d felt as the occumaen bore down on her. “I only wish he’d been able to save Faeren and the others.”
Fedorem squeezed her shoulder once, and then his hand slipped free. Moiran noted that he looked more troubled than before as he settled back into his chair.
“That changes nothing. Even if I did believe Lord Aeren and the Chosen, it is still one lord accusing another. And in the confines of the Evant, I cannot choose between the two unless the Evant demands it.”
“Then Aeren should present his claim to the Evant.”
Fedorem shook his head again. “He won’t. Aeren knows his place in the Evant. House Rhyssal has descended in the ranks these past hundred years. It is now one of the lesser Houses. Aeren would not find the support within the Evant to even bring his accusation to the floor for serious consideration, let alone get them to hand the decision over to me. The rivalry between House Rhyssal and House Duvoraen is too well known.”
Moiran’s frown deepened as she picked up the shears again and began cutting.
“No,” Fedorem said, mostly to himself, as he rose again and moved toward the entrance to the tent. He stood before the opening, although he didn’t stoop to go outside into the night. It was late, but Moiran could still hear the sounds of the Phalanx and servants picking through the destruction caused by the occumaen, guardsmen calling out as more bodies were found. “There’s nothing I can do about Khalaek.”
Moiran was happy to hear a trace of venom in Fedorem’s voice at the lord’s name. “Then why are you so restless? You should sleep.”
“I can’t,” Fedorem murmured. “There’s too much death, too much-”
Moiran glanced up as he broke off, saw the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, in his back, saw the shift from Tamaell to Phalanx guardsman in his stance, wary now, dangerous.
Before she could react, he ducked and shoved his way out of the tent into the darkness.
“Fedorem!”
She tossed the shears aside and scrambled to her feet, her heart quickening. She slid out of the tent, one hand checking to make certain she still carried her knife, but she found Fedorem standing with a group of Phalanx immediately outside, all facing in the same direction, all almost preternaturally still.
She moved up beside her husband and whispered, “What is it?”
He glanced toward her, eyes hard, jaw tight. “Listen.”
She frowned and grew still. All she could hear were the calls of the workers, coming from all sides. She’d drawn breath to ask what she should be listening for when she heard it.
Drums. The faintest echo of drums.
“From the south,” one of the Phalanx members said.
Fedorem nodded. “Yes.” Without another word, he headed toward the northern part of the camp. A breath later, the rest of the Phalanx followed.
Moiran hesitated, then straightened and trailed after.
They moved through the camp as the sounds of the drums grew louder, loud enough that the rest of the camp began to notice. By the time they reached the ridge to the northwest, they’d been joined by at least twenty other Phalanx and a few of the servants. Others had already gathered there, including members of the Evant. Moiran saw Lord Aeren and the Chosen of the Order on one side, Lords Waerren and Jydell on the other.
And waiting to meet them was Lord Khalaek.
“Tamaell,” Khalaek said with a deferential nod as Fedorem approached.
“Lord Khalaek. What news?”
Khalaek smiled slightly. “See for yourself.”
As she reached the ridge, Moiran halted, drawn up short by the sight.
On the plains to the south, still distant but drawing closer with every resounding thud of the drums, were the pinprick reddish flames of torches and lanterns, stretching away into the darkness in a thick but ragged column.
“It would appear,” Khalaek said, his voice soft but filled with satisfaction, “that Lord Aeren was misinformed.” He turned to Fedorem, the smile still touching his eyes.
“The dwarren have arrived.”
Aeren squinted into the early morning sunlight and felt his stomach roil sickeningly. His mount shifted beneath him and snorted, stamping one foot. He reached down to calm it and said, voice tight, “It’s just like before.”
To his left, Eraeth grunted.
Before them on the flat, the three armies had gathered.
The Tamaell and all of the Lords of the Evant were present at the base of the small rise east of the battlefield, the Phalanx from each of the Houses gathered in close formation behind them. Banners for all of the Houses flapped in the stiff breeze, and armor clanked as the Alvritshai and their mounts shifted fitfully beneath the glare of the sun. The Tamaell stood at the forefront, the lords arrayed to either side, all except Aeren, who stood within the Tamaell’s escort, a few paces back.
On the plains below, the Legion stood to the north. Aeren could just see the banners of the King, surrounded by those of the Provinces. It appeared that all of the Governors stood with the King. Most of the Legion were on foot, those mounted grouped behind the King himself.
The dwarren Riders had gathered to the south. They’d set up their camp during the night, their drums a continuous thundering presence until nearly dawn, when they’d suddenly fallen silent. That silence had been almost worse than the constant sounding of the drums. Those still awake in the Alvritshai camp had looked up from whatever they were doing, then returned to their tasks, unsettled.
Now, there were no drums. The dwarren were mounted on their gaezels in a loose formation, nothing like the ordered ranks of the Legion, or even the Alvritshai. A few pennants marked the general location of each of the clans, but unlike the Legion, the clan chiefs appeared to be scattered among their own men.
The large gash the occumaen had left in the plains separated the dwarren and human armies, a dark line that cut diagonally from the Alvritshai armies toward the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west.
The plains were eerily silent. There were no storms on the horizon, only a few scudding clouds. The air felt hollow and empty, yet tight with anticipation, with expectation.
Aeren felt dread eating away at his stomach. He’d felt this same tension over thirty years before, on this very ground. Only back then he’d been filled with the hope that the battle would end all the fighting, all the conflict, all the bloodshed. An alliance had been formed, and with it the first tentative ties between the Alvritshai and human races.
Except that those ties had been torn to shreds during the battle that followed, destroyed and thrown to the ground by Khalaek and then, shockingly, by Fedorem himself.
Aeren resisted glancing toward Khalaek’s position, his hand gripping the reins so hard his fingers had gone white. His horse stirred again and tossed its head, picking up on his tension.
The Tamaell turned, sought him out. Aeren straightened in his saddle and shoved the sickening roil in his gut aside.
No words were spoken. They’d discussed what Aeren would do long into the night, after the dwarren’s arrival. The Tamaell simply nodded.
Aeren kicked his horse forward, Eraeth and two other Rhyssal Phalanx-Dharel and Auvant-accompanying him. The Tamaell’s escort parted before them, then closed ranks behind as Aeren picked up speed, racing out onto the flat, toward a point midway between all three of the gathered armies, in the center of the occumaen’s path. He listened to the snap of the truce banners carried by Dharel and Auvant beneath the thundering of his horse’s hooves and his own heart, heard that thunder change tenor as he reached the edge of the exposed dirt left behind by the occumaen. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and saw a small party of Legion break away from the human army and move to intercept them at the center of the field, carrying the same banners of truce. He turned toward the south, to where the dwarren army waited, but saw nothing.
He clenched his jaw grimly. This wouldn’t work unless the dwarren sent out representatives as well.
When he reached position, he pulled his mount up sharply, then waited, his horse prancing slightly. Eraeth and the others brought their mounts to a halt as well, ranging out behind him. To the right, the members of the Legion party were already halfway there.
To the south, the dwarren had still not moved, although Aeren noticed new activity. He muttered a small curse, then turned his attention to the approaching human representatives.
There were five of them, all members of the Legion, fighting men. They halted their mounts nearly twenty paces away, and as the two groups sized each other up, Aeren realized he recognized their leader: the commander who’d been in the meeting hall in Corsair.
Nodding grimly, Aeren said, “Commander.”
The Legionnaire smiled without any trace of humor. “Lord Aeren. I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”
Aeren frowned at the coldness in the man’s voice. “The dwarren weren’t invited.”
The commander held himself loosely in the saddle, but Aeren wasn’t deceived; his horse wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He regarded Aeren with a blatant stare, brow slightly creased, jaw clenched. A fresh cut marred his forehead over his right eye. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he finally said, and jutted his chin out toward the dwarren army.
Aeren turned to look.
A group had broken away from the dwarren, streaking toward them on gaezels and a single horse. Aeren tensed on seeing the horse, then realized it belonged to the Tamaell Presumptive, who hadn’t returned to the camp the night before.
He allowed himself to relax slightly, although having Thaedoren arrive with the dwarren wouldn’t help alleviate the commander’s suspicions. But perhaps he could use those suspicions to his advantage.
“Did you call the Drifter?” the commander asked suddenly. “It’s said you can control the elements-the wind, the water, the very earth.”
Eraeth snorted and rolled his eyes.
“No,” Aeren said, ignoring his Protector. “We did not call the Drifter. As your scouts have probably already reported, the occumaen destroyed a large portion of our own camp and killed at least fifty Alvritshai. Another thirty are missing. Why would we call something so destructive and unleash it on ourselves?”
“Perhaps it got out of control,” the Legionnaire muttered.
Aeren didn’t bother to respond, but he saw a fleeting expression of doubt cross the commander’s face.
Then he heard the pounding of the gaezels’ hooves as Thaedoren and the group of dwarren arrived. They banked away, then turned and swept past the group, curling around into a position the same distance from both Aeren’s and the Legion’s groups, all except Thaedoren, who rode up into position behind them on his horse. Thaedoren nodded at Aeren, his expression unreadable. He was obviously deferring to the dwarren.
Aeren was not surprised to find the dwarren led by Garius. The clan chief ’s nose and ear chains glinted in the sunlight, the beads woven into his beard clicking against each other as he nudged his gaezel out in front of the rest of his group. He’d brought six other dwarren with him, plus Thaedoren.
Garius glared at Aeren, then at the Legionnaire, before returning his gaze to Aeren. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked in dwarren. He motioned toward the two groups.
Aeren straightened in his saddle. “The Tamaell of the Alvritshai, Fedorem Arl Resue, wishes to end the bloodshed on the plains. He proposes that all three leaders of the three races-King Stephan Werall, Cochen Harticur of the Red Sea Clan, and himself, along with a suitable escort-gather here, on this ground to discuss a treaty among our peoples.” Aeren waited while someone from each party translated from Alvritshai to their own language.
A silence settled, held for a long moment And then was broken by a harsh laugh from the Legionnaire. “You want to talk peace? After what happened here over thirty years ago?” His voice lowered dangerously. “You would dare suggest peace on this ground, at this place.”
“It is precisely because of what happened here, at this place thirty years ago that Tamaell Fedorem suggests we talk,” Aeren said. “A mistake was made, one that he wishes to rectify.”
“A mistake!”
Aeren winced at Garius’ deep-chested, enraged roar. The clan chief had edged his gaezel closer, and for the first time Aeren noticed that he brandished a sword, the weapon laid across his lap.
“A mistake!” Garius’ gaze was scathing. “You slaughtered us. You cut us down and then drove us off of the Escarpment. You call that a mistake? It was butchery!”
Behind him, Garius’ men grumbled, and Thaedoren shot Aeren a warning glance.
Waiting until the muttering had died down, Aeren looked directly at Garius and said, “No. That was not a mistake. That was planned.”
The outrage was instantaneous, the dwarren erupting in curses, swords raised for emphasis. Thaedoren stiffened in his saddle behind the group, his jaw set, his gaze black. But the dwarren didn’t move to attack; Garius hadn’t even raised his weapon.
Instead, he simply glared at Aeren past his lowered brow. “So you intend to speak the truth here as well?”
“Yes.”
Garius nodded.
“And was the betrayal of Maarten, our King, planned?” the Legionnaire demanded bitterly.
Aeren turned toward the commander, looked into his enraged eyes. He hesitated, but he realized he’d grown tired. Of the lies, the half-lies. Of veiled suspicions and secrets.
He drew in a deep breath, aware that Thaedoren stood to one side, aware that he’d already stepped over his bounds by admitting to the dwarren that there had been an alliance between the Alvritshai and the humans to the dwarren. But he no longer cared.
“The betrayal at the Escarpment was planned,” he said bluntly.
The commander jerked back as if he’d been struck, his eyes going wide in surprise, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Behind him, his men gasped or cried out, those not carrying the banners of truce edging their mounts forward. But they did not draw their weapons.
Because the commander hadn’t drawn his.
Aeren could see the rage, pent up for thirty years, feeding on suspicion, on his lord’s blatant hatred, fostered by the constant struggle on the borders among all of the races. His teeth ground together, and his breathing came harsh and ragged. The hand holding the hilt of his sword clenched and unclenched as he fought himself, the urge to draw and vent his rage on Aeren and the Alvritshai clear in his eyes, in the strained lines of his face.
Aeren didn’t know what held the commander’s hand, but in the end he calmed himself, enough to release his blade, enough to wave his men back, the gesture sharp, barely controlled. The muscles in his face contracted as he drew a short breath. “And yet you come here expecting us to discuss peace.”
“The betrayal was planned,” Aeren said, “but not by all of the Evant. I was not aware of it, nor was my brother, the Lord of House Rhyssal at the time. I know of at least two other lords who were dragged into it after your King had been killed.”
The Legionnaire spat, “And what of Fedorem? What of your precious Tamaell? Was he aware?”
Aeren winced. “That is what the Tamaell wishes to discuss.”
“Ha!” The commander shook his head in disgust. He leaned forward in his saddle, leather creaking. “It matters little if the Tamaell was aware. He kept his mouth shut afterward, didn’t he? He became complicit the moment he allowed it to happen, the moment he allowed it to go unpunished.”
The commander took the reins of his horse in one hand, nudged his horse around, turning it back toward the human armies. “There will be no talks,” he said coldly. “We learned a harsh lesson here at the Escarpment thirty years ago, one we have not forgotten: The Alvritshai cannot be trusted.”
Then he turned his back on them all, motioning with one hand toward the others in his escort.
Aeren felt a moment of panic, even though he’d expected this response. He’d seen their resistance, their human stubbornness, in Corsair. He’d seen the hatred and pain that still lay on the surface, both there and in Portstown, in all the other cities he’d visited in the Provinces.
But circumstances had changed. The world had changed.
The world was Turning.
“How goes the war with Andovan?” he asked loudly, before the Legionnaire and his men could move beyond earshot.
The commander halted, his back stiffening, his men pulling up short around him. One of them looking back with a glare.
Aeren edged his horse forward. “It doesn’t appear to be going well,” he said casually. “They’ve attacked nearly every port on your coast, in nearly every Province. We know that they’re hounding your shipping fleets, interrupting your trade, sinking what they cannot take. We were surprised you could send so many of the Legion here, especially since we weren’t posing an imminent threat at the time.”
The Legionnaire shifted slightly, so that Aeren could see his profile. But he did not turn around. “What is your point?” he said, voice still heated.
He knew the point. Aeren could hear it in his voice. He answered anyway.
“You can’t afford to have your forces divided. This conflict on the plains is useless and only distracts you from a more pressing threat: the Andovans. They’ve been distracted by their internal conflict these long years, by their Feud. But that’s ended. They have their sights set on their lost colonies, on their lost lands. And their attacks are escalating.
“You need this peace. You need it more than we do.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. The Alvritshai couldn’t afford to lose many more lives. There were fewer than eighty thousand Alvritshai left, when once there were two hundred thousand. And he knew the dwarren were in a similar situation. He’d seen the decrease in dwarren on the plains, although the dwarren would recover much more quickly than the Alvritshai. In that respect, the dwarren were like the humans. They bred like rabbits.
But the attacks by the Andovans were more immediate and more pressing.
Aeren saw the commander frown, his chin dropping slightly.
Then he turned away again. But before he kicked his horse forward, he said bitterly, “I’ll inform King Stephan of your request.”
Aeren watched him and his escort gallop back across the plains to their ranks for a moment before turning to Garius.
The dwarren clan chief eyed Aeren shrewdly. He’d been listening to the conversation intently, and he now fingered the hilt of his sword as he stared Aeren down.
“You already know why we must talk of peace,” he finally said.
Aeren nodded. “The sukrael.”
Garius glanced in the direction of the forest, too distant to actually see on the horizon. “The urannen.” His lip twitched as he said the name, and he spat to one side.
When he turned back, he said, “I will tell the Cochen of your talk.”
Then he spun his gaezel around, calling an order to the rest of the dwarren. Their gaezels leaped forward, leaving Thaedoren behind on his horse.
He cantered forward, to face Aeren. “You risk much for this peace.”
“I risk everything,” Aeren said darkly.
Thaedoren measured him with a glance, then nodded. “I’ll remain with the dwarren until the meeting can be arranged.”
“I’ll inform the Tamaell.”
Thaedoren pulled his horse around and charged out after the dwarren.
Aeren met Eraeth’s gaze.
“That could have gone better,” his Protector said blandly as they headed back toward the Tamaell and the rest of the Alvritshai army.
“It gives us a chance. Let’s hope the talk itself is less anger fueled.”
It wasn’t.
Aeren could already feel the tension radiating from the men, dwarren, and Alvritshai gathered about the tent that had been erected in the center of the battlefield. All of those assembled were glaring at the other two contingents, even as each party sent a single member into the tent to verify that everything had been set up as established during the two days of negotiations. The dwarren had demanded that their own meeting tent be used, but King Stephan had refused on the grounds that he was unfamiliar with their setup and layout. An argument had ensued, with Tamaell Fedorem finally offering the compromise that they use a human tent, with the stipulation that one of the dwarren shamans be allowed to sanctify it. Both sides had grudgingly agreed.
Then the question of how many men each leader would be allowed to bring with them into the tent. Tamaell Fedorem had requested fourteen, intending to bring the seven Lords of the Evant, with one aide each. The dwarren had immediately demanded twenty. Aeren suspected that the number itself didn’t matter to them, it only had to be higher than the Tamaell’s choice. Stephan had scoffed and said he would only need seven.
They’d finally agreed on ten additional men each.
After that, they’d argued about how the tent would be set up, how they’d verify that the tent was safe before the other leaders entered, how the guards would be positioned outside, what food and drink would be available, whether weapons would be allowed, and how many weapons each guard would be able to carry.
As soon as all of these matters were settled, the argument within the Evant began over who would accompany the Tamaell. The dwarren had demanded that both Thaedoren and Fedorem be present. Moiran had protested. Thaedoren was the Tamaell Presumptive-it made no sense to risk both Fedorem and Thaedoren at the meeting. Her voice had been quiet and controlled, but Aeren had heard the tremor beneath it, had seen the fear in her eyes. A mother’s fear. But Fedorem had overruled her. Daedalen, their second son, still remained in Alvritshai hands, ready to take Thaedoren’s and Fedorem’s place if something should happen to them both.
Moiran had pursed her lips, but she said nothing.
That left nine places to be filled. Some would have to be reserved for the Phalanx. Fedorem didn’t intend to enter the tent without some guardsmen. He allocated three places for his own personal guard, leaving six at the disposal of the Evant.
In the end, after nearly an entire day of exhausting discussion, of tirades and brittle conversation, of anger and heated words, it was decided that Aeren and Khalaek would accompany the Tamaell. Each would be allowed two others of their own chosing.
Aeren’s brow furrowed as he glanced toward Khalaek, the lord dressed in formal black and gold. He caught Aeren’s stare and held it
… then smiled before turning away, back toward the two aides he’d chosen to bring along with him.
Eraeth leaned forward and murmured, “The one on the right is the man Benedine met with in the courtyard.”
Aeren faced Colin questioningly and received a nod in return.
He frowned, considering the man. He could see the training of the Phalanx in the way the man held himself. When he sensed Aeren’s attention, he looked over, met Aeren’s gaze, held it a long moment without moving, then returned to waiting, without a second look back.
Then the scouts-all three-emerged from the tent, giving an all-clear signal as they retreated back to their respective groups.
Aeren drew in a deep breath, glancing around at the rest of the escort gathered, including those who would wait outside the tent. They held the banners of those present-the black and gold talon of House Duvoraen; the white and red eagle rampant of House Resue, the Tamaell’s colors; and the blue and red wings of Aeren’s own House Ryhssal. The dwarren shaman stepped forward, chanting as he gestured with the feathered spear he carried and spread what Aeren had verified were tiny grass seeds into the wind. Aeren caught King Stephan muttering impatiently to his commander, both of their expressions dark. Aeren had learned the commander’s name was Tanner Dain.
And then the shaman stepped back, his chant dying.
Tamaell Fedorem turned to Aeren and nodded.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aeren stepped toward the tent, Eraeth and Colin following in his wake. He saw representatives from each of the other two races doing the same.
The tent had four entrances, each one leading to a small room sectioned off from the large interior where the same wide, low table the dwarren had used in the previous meeting tent had been set up. There were no chairs on the dwarren’s side of the table, and none on the Alvritshai side, but when Aeren stepped past the fold separating the entrance chamber to the main room, he noticed the human King had brought in three wooden seats. Pillows had been positioned for the Tamaell and the Cochen of the dwarren, with a few set to either side for those that accompanied them. In the center of the table sat a shallow bowl containing a sheaf of grain, a few eagle feathers, and assorted fruits. Otherwise, the tent and table were bare.
Even as Eraeth and Colin emerged from the outer room, Colin using his staff to push the tent flap aside, Aeren caught the whiff of smoke, followed by the incense the dwarren used. But the braziers he’d seen in the dwarren’s meeting tent were absent.
“They must have lit one inside their own chamber,” Eraeth murmured, nodding toward the southern side of the tent.
Even as he spoke, a clan chief Aeren was unfamiliar with stepped into the room, followed by three others. He glared at Aeren, arms crossed over his chest, then scanned the room.
The entire tent shook as the Legionnaire Tanner Dain shoved through. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword meaningfully, frowning as he caught sight of Aeren, his stance shifting slightly, more on guard. When two other Legionnaires entered behind him, he motioned toward the table.
They inspected the room, even though they’d already sent in one person to look things over, then fell back to Tanner’s side without comment. He spoke to one in a whisper; the man ducked back outside, but Tanner kept his attention fixed on Aeren and the dwarren clan chief.
“Tell the Tamaell that everything is ready,” Aeren said.
Eraeth grunted, gave Tanner one last dark glance, then slipped through to the outer room.
The dwarren clan chief simply nodded. He hadn’t moved since he’d entered.
King Stephan arrived first. He wore a yellow shirt, a sheaf of wheat-like the one in the bowl in the center of the table, Aeren noted-embroidered in black on the front, the contrast stark. The shirt was formal, but plain, with no frills around the cuffs or neck and nothing adorning the shoulders, as Aeren knew the Andovans favored. This was practical, and with a shiver Aeren realized that the King wore armor beneath.
Stephan straightened, his gray eyes taking in Aeren, Colin, and the dwarren with one casual sweep, while one of the guardsmen held the tent flap back as what Aeren guessed was one of the Governors followed in the King’s wake, six other Legionnaires coming in after him. The King moved to the central chair and sat, Tanner and the Governor taking the other two seats. The rest of the Legion spaced themselves out behind them.
Even with eight guardsmen behind him, Aeren knew that Stephan posed the biggest threat. Each of the humans carried a sword, and they all radiated a cold, wary hostility.
Harticur entered next, followed by Thaedoren, Garius, and two other clan chiefs. Three other Riders joined the two dwarren already present, as Thaedoren nodded at Harticur and moved around to the Alvritshai side. Stephan watched the interaction with a suspicious glare, his hands clenched where they rested on the arms of his chair, but Thaedoren ignored him. The rest of the clan chiefs moved to the edge of the table and sat, but Harticur remained standing.
“Lord Aeren,” Thaedoren murmured in greeting. His gaze flicked toward Colin, brows rising in slight surprise. “Was bringing him here a wise choice?” He nodded minutely toward Stephan and the Legion. “We could have used one more of the Phalanx, if things go bad.”
“One more member of the Phalanx would mean little.”
“Perhaps. Or it could mean the difference between life and death.”
Aeren was spared a response as Eraeth returned, holding the tent flap aside as the Tamaell, Khalaek, and the rest of the escort arrived. Khalaek seemed unnaturally nervous, his gaze darting about the room as if he were searching for something, his hand never far from his cattan. The casual smile he’d given Aeren outside had vanished, replaced by a hard expression, grim and apprehensive.
The Tamaell appeared grim as well. He wore a simple red and white shirt over light armor, his cattan strapped to his side. He took his place at the eastern end of the table, the western edge remaining empty.
Nodding formally to both Stephan and Harticur, he said, “I thank you both for coming-”
Before he could finish, Aeren caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a flicker, a blur of shadow. He frowned, a coldness lancing into his gut, a frisson of warning. Behind him, he heard Colin shift forward, heard the human say, “Wait,” in startled confusion And then something splattered across his face, across his chest, something hot and fluid, soaking instantly through his clothing to his skin.
He jerked back, blinked, one hand already rising to touch whatever had struck his cheek And then he froze in mid-motion, eyes locked on the black-cloaked figure that stood before the Tamaell, one gloved hand fisted in the Tamaell’s shirt over his chest, holding him upright and close, the other finishing the sweep of the blade across Fedorem’s neck. The figure’s face was hidden beneath a cowl, the hood drawn down, but Aeren caught the impression of human clothing beneath, a shirt styled like the Provinces, the glitter of a belt buckle, a sword’s sheath.
He saw it all in the space of a heartbeat. Then the shadowed figure released the Tamaell, almost disdainfully, and with a smeared blur he vanished.
In the shocked, confused silence that followed, there was no sound except the patter of blood as it flew from a blade that was no longer there, as it gushed from the Tamaell’s throat, coating the front of his shirt, his head thrown slightly back. It struck the table, hit the shallow bowl in the center, staining the sheaf of wheat, the eagle’s feathers, the fruit.
Aeren felt his entire body go numb, his hands tingling, his heart stilled in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. A roar filled his ears, like the wind of the plains, harsh and hollow and constant, a howl that drowned out everything.
And then the Tamaell dropped to his knees and toppled forward. His torso struck the table with a sickening, meaty thunk, his head cracking into the side of the wooden bowl. It flipped, the wheat and feathers and fruit scattering.
The clatter of the bowl coming to rest broke the silence.
Khalaek leaped forward, cattan sliding from its sheath in one smooth motion. “We’ve been betrayed!”
His roar filled the tent and sent a shudder through Aeren’s chest, down into his gut. He heaved in a broken gasp even as the Phalanx who stood at the back of the tent surged forward with answering roars, charging onto the table toward the dwarren and the Legion. Blades snicked from sheaths as both the human guardsmen and the dwarren Riders sprang forward to protect their rulers. Aeren stepped back from the sudden din of shouts, of battle cries, of blades striking blades and hatred being unleashed.
Then a hand latched onto his arm and jerked him around. He cursed, one hand going automatically to his cattan, half drawing it before he recognized Eraeth’s face. “Get back!” his Protector bellowed. He thrust Aeren against the side of the tent, where Colin stood, wide-eyed with horror, then stepped in front of them both, cattan already readied.
The blur, the figure, the Tamaell…
Aeren sucked in shocked breath and murmured, “A Wraith.” He reached forward and grabbed Eraeth’s arm. “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” But before he finished, he realized that neither he nor Eraeth could protect the Tamaell Presumptive. Not from what had killed Fedorem, not against a Wraith.
Only one of them had a chance.
He spun and yelled, “Colin!”
The human caught his gaze, and Aeren saw the realization sink in through the shock, the same realization he’d come to.
Then Colin blurred…
And vanished.
A moment before the Wraith appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, Colin had felt a disturbance in the air, like a breeze. The hairs on his arms had prickled and risen. Something stabbed into his left arm, where the black mark from the Well swirled beneath his skin, pain searing up from his wrist to his elbow. He’d hissed, clutched at the arm with his other hand, turned to the side And then he’d smelled the Lifeblood: earth and leaves and snow.
One of the Phalanx behind them met his gaze. He stood near the entrance to the inner room where the three races were meeting, one hand holding the flap of the tent to one side, and as their eyes met, Colin felt a shock of recognition pierce through him.
Khalaek’s aide. The one who’d met Benedine in the courtyard.
He heard the Tamaell begin to speak, heard his voice cut off. “Wait,” he muttered, as a stunned silence settled over the room, broken by another sound, the sound of rain, of droplets hitting wood and grass and cloth.
He caught a glimpse of the Wraith… and then it vanished.
His hand tightened on his staff, his eyes going wide.
He’d known the Wraiths had left the forest, but the sight of the Wraith there, in the tent, cloaked in shadows His chest squeezed tight, so tight he couldn’t breathe, a strange, queasy, fluid warmth settling in his gut, making his legs tremble with weakness.
The Tamaell’s body fell. He heard Khalaek shout, felt the Phalanx around him charge forward, but everything was removed and muted. Eraeth pulled Aeren back from the escalating fray, blades and shouts filling the tent, and still the warm, tingling weakness filled him.
And then he heard Aeren cry out, “Thaedoren! We have to protect Thaedoren!” The Lord of House Rhyssal paused, one hand still clutching Eraeth’s arm… and then he spun, eyes intense with fear, with determination. “Colin!”
It wasn’t a question, it was an order.
With a sickening sensation, Colin felt the numbness break. No one here had any hope of stopping the Wraith. No one could stop it.
Except him.
And Khalaek wanted to Ascend. He wanted the Evant. It wouldn’t be enough to kill the Tamaell. He’d need to kill the Tamaell Presumptive as well.
Colin’s jaw clenched, and without even a nod in Aeren’s direction, he pushed.
The world slowed instantly, so fast Colin gasped. He’d shoved harder than he’d intended, but he didn’t pause to steady himself, didn’t even twitch at the sharp pain that shot through his side like a runner’s cramp. The mark on his arm flared with pain again as he spun, centering on Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive frozen in mid-motion, sword drawn, rising to strike at one of the Legion, the man’s face twisted with rage, Thaedoren’s face cold. The Wraith stood directly behind Thaedoren. Even as Colin watched, it brought its sword around to strike. A pressure built, prickling along Colin’s skin, as the Wraith prepared to slip back into real time, the tip of its sword angled now toward Thaedoren’s back.
Colin reacted without thought. His staff swung in a wide arc, whirring through the tight confines of the tent and cracking into the Wraith’s neck.
The Wraith staggered, lurched to one side, then spun, sword flicking out to parry Colin’s second swing. Metal met wood with a solid thwack, and a chunk of Colin’s staff broke free. It slowed as it lost contact with the heartwood of the staff, froze in midair, returning to real time, but the Wraith didn’t give Colin enough time to recover. It lashed out, sword nothing but a blur, going for his stomach.
Colin sucked in a breath as he stumbled backward, his staff whipping around to shunt the Wraith’s blade aside. He cried out as he felt metal slicing through his clothing and into the skin at his side, but he ignored the flare of pain, bringing his staff up and around, trying to fling the sword from the Wraith’s grip so it would return to real time like the chunk torn from his staff, but the Wraith merely grunted and turned into the staff ’s motion. Shifting his grip, Colin brought the bottom down toward the Wraith’s feet.
Heartwood shuddered as it struck flesh, and the Wraith shouted in pain as its leg folded and it fell to one knee, half-turned away. Colin threw himself backward as it pivoted, swinging its entire body around with a low growl, sword flashing through where Colin had stood a moment before, its cloak flaring.
The two faced each other, both breathing heavily, Colin with the staff angled before him, the Wraith on one knee, sword leveled, the world stilled around them.
And then the Wraith chuckled. A deep sound, unpleasant, rumbling from its chest, laced with hatred and contempt.
“What’s the matter, Colin?” the Wraith sneered. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Colin frowned, but before he had a chance to think, the Wraith swept the cowl from its face.
It took Colin a moment. The thin forty-year-old face beneath the cowl was mottled with swirling blackness, like oil, the darkness beneath the man’s skin, like the mark that had slowly begun taking hold of Colin’s forearm. But this darkness, this shadow was more complete, had reached a point where there was more darkness than there was skin. The face was scarred because of that darkness, age lines marring the flesh, as if the man beneath had suffered for long years, had been forced to suffer. The hair was a dirty blond but streaked with gray-at the temples, on the sides-long and unruly, tangled and mussed, with leaves caught in it, small twigs. The mouth was twisted in a sardonic smile, edged with vicious anger. And the eyes…
The eyes were not those of a forty- year-old man. They were the eyes of someone much older, someone who had experienced far more… and yet they were the eyes of a younger man as well, one who didn’t know his place in the world, who desperately wanted a place but, however hard he tried, could not find it. Gray-green, those eyes regarded him with heated, deep-seated anger.
An anger Colin recognized.
The eyes, the face, the hair, the rage Colin sucked in a ragged breath. “Walter.”
Walter’s smile broadened even as his eyes narrowed, and Colin could see the fifteen-year-old boy who had beaten him in the back alleys of Portstown, could see the slightly older boy who had pissed on him while he was locked into the pillory and had choked him against the side of the wagon on the plains. “So good to know I haven’t been forgotten,” Walter murmured.
And now Colin recognized his voice, the younger Walter still hidden in the undertone, in the contempt. As all of the memories of his time in Portstown-the harassment and vicious bullying, the times that bullying had crossed over the line into something more deadly, more dangerous-as all of that and more returned, Colin found himself hardening. His chest tightened, the warmth of rage burning deep, sliding down into his gut, into his arms and legs. The coldness on seeing the Wraith vanished, subsumed by the anger, and he found himself slipping into a more solid stance, his jaw set in quiet resolve.
“I thought you’d died with all of the others in the wagon train, there at the edge of the forest,” he said, his voice like stone. “I thought the Shadows got you.”
Walter chuckled again. “Oh, the Shadows did. Only, unlike the rest, they didn’t kill me. They took me to the Well. They made me drink, and then they fed off of my soul. They made me into this. ”
Walter leaped forward. Colin hadn’t noticed him shifting his weight onto his bent leg, but he dodged to the left as Walter thrust upward. He brought the staff down hard toward Walter’s exposed back, but Walter rolled, the heartwood thudding into the earth. Colin bit out a curse, already moving, Walter doing the same. He swung at Walter’s retreating figure, the two dodging in and out among the static figures of the dwarren, the humans, and the Alvritshai. Blade met staff, both shoved aside as they parried, struck again, spun and twisted. Walter’s sword sliced through Colin’s shirt, nicked him in the arm, across the cheek, along the thigh, each cut stinging, blood flowing, soaking into his clothes, trailing down his leg. He hissed each time metal kissed flesh, but he struck back, using all the skills he’d mastered hunting the sukrael in the forests surrounding the Well, calling on everything he’d learned. The staff thudded into flesh with bruising force, catching Walter on the upper arm, the thigh, in a glancing blow across his back. Walter shouted with each touch, but he didn’t slow. His attacks grew less precise, more haphazard, as they both began to tire. Sweat ran down into Colin’s eyes, blurred his vision and stuck his clothes to his back, his sides. Weight settled into his arms, weariness and exhaustion setting in. He saw the same weariness lining Walter’s face with every swing, but Walter wasn’t tiring as fast. Colin thought about his time in the forest, fighting the sukrael, hunting the Wraiths, the Faelehgre at his side. He suddenly realized that nearly all the attacks he’d suffered from had come from one Wraith, from Walter. His hatred of Colin had never died, even after suffering at the hands of the Shadows. Walter had been the Wraith at the Well his last day in the forest, the bait for the trap that had lured him into the Shadows’ grasp. Walter had been the one to hunt him throughout the years, even as Colin hunted the Shadows.
Which meant Walter had more practice with the power of the Well.
Even as he thought it, Colin felt his grasp of time slipping, as it had when he’d dragged Moiran outside the reach of the occumaen. He realized Walter would win. The Wraith could hold himself suspended longer.
And then Walter stumbled, tripped over the rough, trampled grass, falling to his side, his free hand reaching out to catch himself. He cried out, began scrambling away, sword clutched tight, feet digging into the earth. Colin slammed the staff into his back and he collapsed to the ground, sword arm beneath him; Colin struck him again as he tried to rise, and this time Walter stayed down, heaving, face pressed into the earth.
Colin stood over him, rage burning in his chest, through his blood, pounding in his ears. He could hear it, a rush of wind that throbbed with every pulse, that filled his mind, that bled from his fingers and seeped from his skin like sweat. He trembled with it, felt the urge to strike Walter again and again and again, once for every kick that he’d landed in the alley of Portstown, for every blow he’d suffered, every time he’d been spat upon by the townspeople while in the pillory. He wanted to see Walter bleed-for his father, his mother, for Karen and all that they had suffered at the hands of Walter and his father. He wanted Walter to bleed for Benedine, for the Tamaell Fedorem and the shattered chance of peace, for all of those who’d died at the hands of the sukrael.
He’d raised his staff to strike again when Walter rolled, a growl rumbling from his throat. His sword arm came free and he swung, even as Colin reacted, his shoulders tensing, the staff descending.
Walter’s sword hit the staff between Colin’s hands, and with a sharp crack, the staff broke.
Pain shivered up into his hands, numbed them. Colin gasped as he felt the shock tremble up through his arms, as he felt the power of the staff, gifted to him by the forest, release, a pulse that shuddered through him in a wave. The staff tumbled from his grasp, the two pieces returning to real time.
And then Walter’s foot drove into his stomach, shoving him up and back.
He struck someone as he fell, tumbled over the immobile form, then struck the table where the Tamaell’s body lay. His breath exploded from him, and he felt his hold on time loosen. Gasping, he snatched at it, the world lurching for a moment with motion, a roar of sound swelling, then dropping as he firmed up his grip. He tasted blood in his mouth, realized he’d bitten down on his tongue as he fell And then Walter loomed above him.
He saw one of Walter’s booted feet rise and he rolled away.
But not fast enough. Walter’s heel slammed into his side, dug into his back as he twisted, pinning him to the table. Something hard gouged into his stomach, trapped beneath him and the table and he hissed at the pain, Walter’s weight digging it in deeper as he leaned into his foot.
And then he remembered what it was: the knife. The knife he’d used to try to kill himself in the forest. The knife Eraeth had begun training him with weeks before at the same time he started to teach him the Alvritshai language.
“All those years,” Walter said, grinding his heel in harder, his teeth clenched with the effort. His breath came in haggard gasps. “All those years in the forest, near the Well, learning from the sukrael, learning how to speak to them, learning to manipulate them. All those years trying to hurt you, trying to catch you away from the Well, away from the cursed white stone of the city, so that I could make you suffer as I had suffered. All those years learning to live with myself! All because of you and your damned father, because of that stupid expedition.”
The weight pressed into Colin’s back released, and he shifted, rocked far enough that his hand could scrabble in the loose folds of his shirt, reaching for the handle of the knife. The tip of Walter’s sword appeared in his line of vision, digging into the wood of the table a few inches in front of his face, and he stilled, fingers curled tight around the knife’s handle, hidden from Walter’s view by his body.
“If it hadn’t been for you,” Walter said, his voice close, leaning forward, weight on his sword, “I would have been the Proprietor of Portstown in my father’s stead.”
“No,” Colin said, voice calm. He tensed, hand tightening its grip on the knife. “Your father only thought of you in one way.” He turned slightly, so he could see Walter’s face, the half-Shadow, half-man bent slightly forward, brow creased in consternation. “As his bastard son.”
As he spat the last word, Colin flipped onto his back and brought the hand holding the knife out from under his body and up, inside the curve of Walter’s arm. Walter lurched back, but he was too late.
The knife drove into Walter’s chest with enough force to sink to the handle. Colin felt the blade strike bone, felt it scrape across it, shunted to one side, before puncturing deeper.
Walter screamed, pulling away with enough force to rip the knife from Colin’s hands. His sword tore free of the table. Before he’d taken two steps, the scream turned into a liquid gargle as blood from his lungs filled his throat. Colin swore as he scrambled away, to the opposite side of the table. He’d missed the heart. And now he had no weapons at all.
On the far side of the table, Walter’s scream gurgled out into a harsh cough as he leaned forward, spitting blood. He reached toward the dagger’s handle protruding from his side, and with a wrench, he yanked the blade free. He screamed again, staggering to one side, nearly collapsing. Using his sword as a brace, tip dug into the earth, he steadied himself, still coughing, still spitting blood, although not as much as before.
Then he raised his head.
The lower half of his face was covered in blood, and when he grinned-a snarling, vicious grin-his teeth were stained with it. His face had gone pale, the swirling, mottled blackness more vivid in contrast. His hand, still holding the knife, clutched at his side, blood pouring over his fingers, saturating his black shirt.
“I-” he began, then broke into another fit of coughing. More blood-a dark, red, heart’s blood-snaked from the corners of his mouth.
When he recovered, he was no longer grinning. His face was harsh, caught between rage and a grimace.
He’d hurt him. Hurt him more than Walter had thought possible. Colin could see it in Walter’s eyes.
“I don’t have time for this,” Walter said, low and pained, but clear.
He drew himself up, wincing with effort, and considered Colin for a long moment, seething. Colin searched frantically for another weapon, but the only weapons available were being used by the Alvritshai, the Legion, and the dwarren surrounding them, and he couldn’t touch them, couldn’t drag them into his time frame. Not without restoring time first.
“I don’t have time,” Walter repeated.
And then he drew his hand away from his side, fresh blood spilling out as he released the pressure there and adjusted his grip on Colin’s knife. Turning it, he flicked his wrist and threw the blade.
But not in Colin’s direction, Colin realized in horror, even as the knife slowed in midair, returned to real time, no longer under the influence of Walter’s or Colin’s grip. Walter hadn’t thrown the knife at him because he’d known Colin could move out of its way after it returned to real time.
Instead, he’d thrown it at one of the only other people in the tent that Colin cared about:
“Aeren,” Colin said, eyes widening in horror.
Walter smiled grimly And then he blurred… and vanished.