Aeren stood inside the tent, at the head of the gathering of the Evant-only Lord Khalaek was missing-with the Tamaell Presumptive sitting to his right, Lotaern to his left, Eraeth and a few Phalanx from House Rhyssal and Resue behind them. Servants had brought trays of food, platters of cheese and fruit, and jugs of wine, passing them among the lords as they marched in from the field. Others eased their lords out of armor, while healers dabbed at wounds. Lord Waerren had taken a vicious cut to his upper arm and winced as it was stitched closed. Barak ran fingers through hair matted with blood, taking a proffered towel so he could wipe the grit and dust from his face. Each was surrounded by his House Phalanx, nearly everyone being tended, all of them grumbling or grimacing as they were poked and prodded. Moiran moved among them, helping where she could.
The day’s fighting settled over Aeren like a mantle, heavy and encompassing. Exhaustion dragged down on his arms, threatening to pull him to the floor. Weariness lay thick on his shoulders. He ached in places he hadn’t felt in thirty years, since the last time they’d fought on these plains. He wanted merely to retreat to his tents, tend to his wounds, as minor as they were, and sleep.
But the Tamaell Presumptive had called a meeting of the Evant.
As soon as the healers had finished and the servants had retreated, Thaedoren ordered everyone but the Evant out, including his mother, then turned and nodded at Aeren.
Aeren didn’t wait for silence, didn’t even wait until he had the lords’ attention. He simply said again, quietly, “We cannot win this battle.”
The reaction was instantaneous and explosive. The lords spluttered or growled, would have stood had they not been as exhausted as Aeren himself. Their protests escalated, until Lord Peloroun leaned forward and shouted, “Preposturous! How can you say this at this stage? We have only been on the field for a few days!”
“And how were you faring during those few days? How much ground did you gain before the dwarren arrived?” Aeren shot back.
The rest of the lords fell silent at the vehemence in Aeren’s tone, surprised. Aeren had never been quick to anger, but he was furious now. “We didn’t come here to fight,” Aeren growled. “We came here to end the fighting, to negotiate a peace with the dwarren. There was never any intention to stage a prolonged battle, especially against two separate armies on the same battlefield!”
“That was not the intent,” Peloroun said, voice hard, “but some of us knew that forging peace was merely a weak lord’s-a diplomat’s -dream, nothing more.”
Aeren ignored the slight. “And so you brought your Phalanx, nearly five hundred strong from your House alone by the time we’d reached the borders.”
“Two thousand more joined us while you and the Tamaell Presumptive went off to meet with the dwarren,” Peloroun said. “Or were you not aware of the reinforcements the Tamaell had arranged?”
“I was aware of them. And it is still not enough. Not when you factor in the loss of over two hundred Alvritshai on the battlefield today. Two hundred Alvritshai sent to Aielan’s Light!”
“Ha!” Peloroun spat to one side. “What does a diplomat know of war?”
Aeren drew in a deep breath to calm himself, glanced around at the other lords, saw some of them with skeptical expressions, clearly siding with Peloroun.
But a few were frowning.
He focused on Peloroun. “Think back to the field today, Lord Peloroun. Think back to the battle.”
Peloroun grunted and sat back grudgingly. “Our lines held.”
“Barely. The dwarren lines held as well, and the Legion provided a serious threat. They nearly broke through your own ranks on the northern flank. If not for House Duvoraen in reserve to bolster it, the Legion would have overrun Lord Jydell’s forces.” Some of Jydell’s men nodded in agreement.
“But it isn’t House Ionaen’s weakness that I wish to emphasize,” Aeren continued, and Peloroun’s eyes sharpened. “What I want to point out is that neither the dwarren nor the humans committed their entire force. Harticur-Cochen of the dwarren Gathering and commander of its Riders-sent only half of them to the front lines-”
“He was acting in defense only!” Peloroun protested.
But Aeren overrode him. “-and King Stephan kept over a third of the Legion in reserve. He sent a mere two hundred men to bolster his line near the end of the fighting today, and it nearly broke us!”
More grumbling and nodding from the rest of the lords and their caitans. Most were frowning now, at least two in whispered conversations, comparing notes and observations on the battle. They’d had little time to talk since it had ended.
Aeren wasn’t finished. With a sharp look at Thaedoren, the Tamaell Presumptive giving an almost imperceptible nod, he said, “And then there’s the matter of supplies.”
Peloroun practically leaped forward. “Supplies are on their way as we speak. Arrangements were made before the convoy even left Caercaern.”
“We couldn’t have accounted for the occumaen. It plowed its way through the heart of our camp and nearly wiped out our current resources. According to the latest inventory, we have enough supplies with rationing to last for five more days. The next load of supplies isn’t scheduled to arrive for at least ten days.
“We’re outnumbered, and in another few days, we’ll be out of food.”
The silence that followed slowly gave way to muted murmurs. He caught fragments of a few of the conversations, lords verifying their own supplies after the occumaen’s passage with their caitans. Lord Peloroun leaned to one side, not taking his eyes off Aeren, to listen to his own caitan, and his frown deepened.
Finally, the mood in the tent now black and apprehensive, Peloroun said, “If what you say is true-and from what my caitan tells me, it is-then what do you propose we do?”
He already knew what Aeren was going to say, Aeren could hear it in his voice, but he answered anyway. “Withdraw.”
For the first time since the meeting had started, Peloroun surged to his feet, his face contorted with rage, with indignation, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, barely restraining himself from crossing the short distance separating them. “You expect us to retreat after the bastards killed the Tamaell?” he spat through clenched teeth.
Aeren opened his mouth to respond, but Thaedoren was the one who answered, his low voice filling the room, cutting everyone’s protests short.
“The humans didn’t kill my father,” he said. “Lord Khalaek did.”
Aeren counted three breaths before the shocked silence broke into a tumultuous uproar. The only Alvritshai in the room who didn’t react were Aeren, Eraeth, Lotaern, Thaedoren, and the Phalanx behind Aeren and the Tamaell Presumptive. After a closer look, Aeren realized that all of the White Phalanx with Thaedoren had been in the parley tent, had seen the Tamaell die. Each of them had tensed at the Tamaell Presumptive’s words, their stance rigid.
The group didn’t quiet until Lord Barak announced loudly, “I heard that a human killed him, that it was an assassin.”
“It was, but Lord Khalaek is the one who hired that assassin,” Thaedoren said.
“How do you know this?” Lord Peloroun barked.
“I learned of Khalaek’s plans from Lord Aeren.”
“Ha! The Duvoraen and the Rhyssal have always been rival Houses! That proves nothing.”
Thaedoren’s gaze fell on Peloroun, narrowed slightly. “I thought so as well, Lord Peloroun. And it’s true that Aeren and Khalaek despise each other. It was for that reason that I ignored Lord Aeren’s warning. And now,” he said, standing slowly, so that he was on the same level as Lord Peloroun, taking a step forward so he stood directly before him, “my father is dead. But it wasn’t Lord Aeren who convinced me Khalaek was involved, it was Khalaek himself. I heard him speak to the assassin, I heard him order my death.”
The lords glanced toward each other, uncertain.
“Where is Lord Khalaek now?” Peloroun asked. “We should ask him what he thinks of these… allegations.”
“These truths, ” Thaedoren spat.
“So you say.”
“You would doubt the Tamaell Presumptive? Over a question regarding his father’s death?”
Everyone turned toward the new voice, toward Lotaern. The Chosen of the Order had said nothing since the Lords of the Evant had arrived, had weathered the few searching looks he’d received. Most of the lords had shrugged his presence aside, effectively ignoring it, assuming that Lotaern was here at the Tamaell Presumptive’s request.
Now, they regarded him with mixed curiosity, confusion, and subdued dissension.
Speaking carefully, Peloroun said, “I would question the word of one of Khalaek’s greatest rivals.”
“And yet, moments ago, you called Lord Aeren a ‘weak lordling’ and nothing but a diplomat.”
Peloroun sneered. “Oldest rivals, then.” He turned back to Thaedoren. “I would still like to speak with Khalaek.”
Thaedoren turned away, moving back to his original position, although he did not sit down. “Khalaek will be dealt with,” he said.
Everyone in the room heard death in the soft words.
“By the Evant,” Lord Barak interjected, a warning note in his voice. “He will be dealt with by the Evant, after this… altercation with the Legion and dwarren is resolved.”
Thaedoren stilled, but he said nothing.
“As for this altercation,” Lotaern said, as if the matter of Khalaek had already been agreed upon, “I believe that Lord Aeren has left out one important factor. Two actually.”
Peloroun’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “And what would those be, Chosen.”
“The first is another reason that the Legion poses a serious threat. They have more men, yes, and their supplies were not affected by the occumaen as ours were… but those by themselves would not be enough to sway me into the belief that we cannot win without something else.”
Impatient, Lord Waerren said, “Which is?”
“The reason King Stephan and the Legion are here, the reason they came to the plains in the first place: the death of his father and their King, Maarten.” He paused to let the words sink in, then added, “Stephan isn’t here to keep the Alvritshai and dwarren from forming an alliance. That’s a pretext. They have their own problems with the Andovans attacking their coastline. And yet, with no provocation, King Stephan came out here to the plains. He-and all of his men-are here for revenge. That is why they will be next to impossible to defeat. They came to fight because they have something to fight for.”
The lords sat back, exchanging troubled glances. Aeren closed his eyes and bowed his head, images of the previous battle at the Escarpment running through his mind. When he finally glanced back up, he saw similar pained expressions on most of the lords in the room, some tinged with guilt.
But that was the past. Nothing could change it.
Aeren turned to Lotaern, brow creased. “You said there were two factors I neglected to mention. What’s the second?”
Lotaern smiled… and yet Aeren felt himself shiver. “The second you could not have known about. You forgot to factor in the men I brought with me, the acolytes, the Order of the Flame.”
Peloroun snorted. “And what good will acolytes do us?”
“They’re more than mere acolytes,” Lotaern said, voice laden with a satisfaction. “They are warriors of Aielan.”
“You led us here, Cochen. We should fight! My Riders are willing, even if others are not.”
Sipa, clan chief of Silver Grass, sneered in Garius’ direction as the other clan chiefs grunted in agreement. Garius tried not to react, even though the yetope smoke in the meeting tent was thick and heady. Shea bristled beside him at the insult, made to stand, but Garius held him back. His son’s scathing look shifted to him.
“The Thousand Spring Riders are ready to fight,” Shea growled.
“We did not come here to fight,” Garius rumbled. He turned his attention to Harticur, the Cochen, who was the only clan chief standing, and repeated, more harshly, “We did not come here to fight the humans or the Alvritshai.”
“We did not intend to come here, to the Cut, at all!” Harticur retorted. His face was flushed from the heat of the tent and the fight to hold the dwarren line after the brutal death of the Alvritshai Tamaell. “But we are here now. We should seize the opportunity. The humans are not interested in us. It was clear on the battlefield. They lust for Alvritshai blood.”
“Let the Alvritshai wear them down,” Sipa said, and most of the other clan chiefs nodded and stroked their beards. “Then strike when they are weakened.”
“We came here to speak to the Tamaell,” Garius countered.
“And the Tamaell is dead! Murdered by the humans in front of our eyes! The humans cannot be trusted.”
A thread of doubt slid through Garius. Sipa was correct. The Tamaell had been killed by a human, although how it was done he had no idea. Even there, in the parley tent, the conflict had centered on the Alvritshai and the humans. Harticur, Garius, and the rest of the dwarren had been forgotten, were able to escape the tent and retreat to their Riders unmolested. Harticur had fought only to keep the human and Alvritshai conflict from overrunning the dwarren, nothing more.
But now, Sipa’s words were causing the Cochen to reconsider. He could see it in Harticur’s eyes as he stared down at the brazier taking up the center of the tent, mimicking the central fire pit of the keeva in each of their warrens. His hands were resting on his knees where he sat cross- legged before the burning coals.
No one spoke for a long moment, everyone inhaling the smoke and contemplating the humans’ treachery and the Tamaell’s death. And then:
“The death was not natural.”
All of the clan chiefs turned toward the gravelly, wizened voice of Harticur’s shaman, Corteq. Wreathed in tendrils of smoke, his hard eyes latched onto each of the clan chiefs for a moment as he scanned the room before returning to the Cochen.
“The gods are troubled. The death was not natural, the events cloudy and obscured. Much turmoil there, much that I do not understand.” He waved his hand through the smoke, appearing to be staring at the patterns it made before him.
“What do you see?” Harticur asked.
“The world is Turning, and the Four Winds have begun to blow. Nothing is clear.” Corteq stared at the tendrils a moment longer, his eyes slightly dilated, then grunted and leaned back. “Tread carefully, Cochen. Your choice will determine the fate of the People of the Lands.”
Harticur frowned, the rest of the clan chiefs stirring uneasily.
“We should attack the humans. It is a chance to avenge our unsettled ancenstors’ spirits,” Sipa said, and Garius saw at least three of the dwarren nodding in agreement, including Shea.
Harticur’s brow furrowed, and he looked up at Garius.
Garius thought for a long moment. This was his last chance to convince Harticur, the last chance to sway him toward peace. “We are at the Cut. If you attack and the humans rally, if the Alvritshai join them…”
Tension tightened the corners of Harticur’s mouth and he nodded.
“Do you think they will make a difference?” Eraeth asked, nodding toward the ranks of the Order of the Flame behind them.
Aeren shifted in his saddle, turning from his perusal of the churned plains to look back, squinting into the light of the rising sun. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Lotaern wasn’t forthcoming about what they could do. But he claims that they are more than simple warriors.”
The acolytes had formed up into lines, four deep. Dressed in armor similar to what most of the House Phalanx wore, they could have blended into any of the surrounding Houses and been indistinguishable from the rest of the Alvritshai… except for their white tabards. Those tabards blazed in the morning sunlight, the stylized flames on their front picked out in gold. He recalled seeing these acolytes emerging from the Sanctuary in Caercaern, felt the same sickening twist of dread in his stomach as he had then.
“The Order was never meant to have a Phalanx,” he murmured, even as Lotaern rode to the front of his acolytes on his white horse, a standard-bearer with the blue and white flame emblem on his banner a step behind.
“It appears he has one now,” Eraeth said.
Aeren glanced toward his Protector. “We’ll see for how long.”
Eraeth merely grunted.
During the meeting of the Evant the night before, Aeren had seen the deepening lines of concern on the Tamaell Presumptive’s face as they planned, as Lotaern revealed more and more about his warriors, his Order of the Flame.
But the Order and its army could wait. He turned his attention back to the ranks of the Alvritshai and the field.
The Houses of the Evant were set up the same as the day before, spread out in a wide v-shape, Thaedoren and House Resue at its point, where it would intersect both the dwarren and human forces. The Duvoraen Phalanx had been kept back as a reserve at Lord Barak’s and Vaersoom’s insistence; they were even more concerned over their loyalties after the allegations of Khalaek’s involvement in the Tamaell’s death, though they had fought well. In fact, they demanded that the caitan be relieved of command and the force given over to one of the Lords of the Evant instead. Peloroun opposed the action, supported by Aeren, much to the Lord of House Ionaen’s surprise. After much argument, Thaedoren settled the matter by pointing out that the Duvoraen had already proven themselves as reserve units and that Khalaek’s men had proved they would follow the caitan of House Duvoraen’s commands.
Everyone else had claimed the same positions along the line and now stood waiting as the sky lightened, the sun finally emerging completely above the horizon behind them. Aeren fidgeted in his saddle, unable to find a position that didn’t aggravate the aches and bruises from yesterday’s battle. The parley tent had collapsed and been ground into the earth, one stake with a fold of cloth still attached jutting upward toward the sky. He stared at it a long moment, a different ache building in his chest. To either side, he could see the dwarren and human lines, too distant to discern faces but close enough to see movement among the men. Banners flapped in a gusting wind. Horses stamped and huffed, jangling their bridles.
He glanced at his own men and met Dharel’s eyes, Auvant’s, a few others. Dharel gave him a short nod, his expression tense, set and ready. All of House Rhyssal was ready. The breeze smelled of anticipation, of sweat and fear, of grass.
Drums sounded, and Aeren spun to see Harticur and a string of Riders sweeping down the length of the dwarren line. To the north, runners scattered from King Stephan’s escort, set a hundred paces in front of his own army. The throbbing pulse of the drums escalated, and the dwarren broke into a roar. The runners for the human army halted, unfurled their flags-red and black, cut diagonally across the rectangular field-and all along the line men voiced a battle cry.
And through it all, the Alvritshai horns sounded.
“So it begins,” Aeren said, so softly only Eraeth could hear. “Again.”
All three lines began to advance, the dwarren on their gaezels streaking forward, their drums a frenzy of sound now, pounding as the thunder of the gaezels’ hooves grew. The Alvritshai and humans advance more slowly, but as the lines drew closer together, the pace increased. The humans broke from their march to a trot. Their front line grew ragged as a few men surged forward, ahead of the rest.
“Steady!” Eraeth bellowed. “Hold!”
Aeren heard Thaedoren barking the same orders to his left, yet he found himself nudging his horse forward a little more, a little faster. He could feel the tension boiling in his blood, could feel it building.
On the field, the dwarren’s far edge swung inward, its center slowing. It struck the end of the human line And as if that contact had been a command, the rest of the humans surged forward. No longer contained, no longer making an attempt at control, they simply charged.
The two armies-dwarren and human-converged, crushing into each other, the connection speeding toward him. Sound filled Aeren’s head, a roaring of wind, a crash of thunder, and without thought he released his horse, released the sound inside his mind in a bellow. The lines folded in upon each other, closer and closer, until they struck the point of the vee, until there was nothing in Aeren’s field of vision except the human army, rushing toward him, eating up the churned mud and grass as they sprinted forward And then they struck, Alvritshai and human lines merging into one, and Aeren felt nothing but the wind and the clash of his cattan.
Moiran glanced up from where she knelt in her tent, needle poised, as the first of the Alvritshai horns cried out.
A shudder ran through her. She held still for a long moment, listening to the pealing notes, so calm and clear at first, then breaking, becoming more scattered, somehow more desperate, as the armies met. She imagined she could feel the earth trembling beneath her from the tread of thousands of feet. Or perhaps it trembled at the senselessness of it all, a shudder at the spill of blood, at the death.
Her heart quickened, its beat hard for a moment as she thought of Fedorem, of his body lying nearby, in another room. But she seized the threatening emotion, grasped it tight even as the tears began to burn at the corners of her eyes. She’d allowed herself to cry the night before, after tending the Lords of the Evant before their meeting and seeing to the needs of the wounded. She’d cried until her ribs ached, until she felt hollow and empty, until she thought there were no more tears, and then she’d cried more. All in solitude, in the confines of her tent, the White Phalanx Thaedoren had set to guard her dismissed. They hadn’t wanted to leave. She’d had to shout at them, nearly breaking at that point, her hands knotted in her dress. She thought it was her hands that had convinced them. Or perhaps it had been the pain in her voice.
She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, so deep she hadn’t dreamed. But she’d woken early, dawn still an hour away.
Now the horns scattered even farther, no longer announcing orders to the entire army, focusing on their own Houses. She let her gaze drop to the pile of clothes she had begun to mend, to the shirt she held in her lap.
One of Fedorem’s shirts.
A hot liquid sensation filled her chest, and she let the hand with the needle drop to her lap, leaning her head forward, the pressure building in the back of her throat.
She’d almost given in to it when someone moaned.
Her head snapped up, breath caught, the grief lodging with a sharp pain in her chest. For a moment, hope flared as she thought the sound had come from Fedorem-even though she’d seen Fedorem’s body, had seen the gaping wound across his throat, knew that Fedorem lay too far away for her to hear him even if he weren’t already dead And then she realized it was the human. Colin. Shaeveran.
She tossed the shirt aside and lurched to her feet, moving to the human’s side.
She hovered uncertainly above him as his head rolled from one side to the other, his features etched in pain. When his eyelids began to flutter though, she knelt, reached for the wet rag sitting on a table nearby, next to a shallow basin and a stack of clean bandages. She dabbed at his sweaty forehead with the cool cloth.
His eyes flared open, the pupils dilating. He focused on her, one hand shooting upward to grab her wrist, his grip tight.
Then he lurched upright Except he didn’t make it. He tried, but a spasm of pain tore across his face and he gasped, collapsing back onto the pallet. His entire face went a grayish-white, and fresh sweat broke out on his skin, his hair already matted to his forehead.
The grip on Moiran’s arm relaxed, although he didn’t let go.
Sucking in a ragged breath, he murmured, “Aeren?”
Moiran shifted, took his hand from her wrist and laid it across his chest, noticing a blossom of blood seeping through the bandage with a frown. The water of the ruanavriell had stopped the flow of blood the day before, but its power had waned… or been neutralized somehow. “On the battlefield at the Escarpment,” she said quietly, wetting the cloth again and drawing it across his face. “Can’t you hear it?”
He stilled. Moiran sat back, let the distant echoes of the battle wash over her, until she saw a subtle change in Colin’s eyes, a deepening, a hint of regret. “He couldn’t stop it,” he whispered.
It wasn’t a question, but Moiran answered anyway. “Nothing could stop it, not after Fedorem’s death.”
Colin looked up at her, somehow exposed. She could see everything in his eyes: his compassion, his fear, his pain. Not the wound he’d suffered to save Aeren and Thaedoren. She saw a deeper wound, one that had scarred him, the loss of a loved one.
And she saw something else as well. She saw his humanness, his darker skin, his rounded face, the brown of his hair and the darkness of his eyes.
Yet he was not human. She had only to look down at his arm, at the exposed darkness that swirled beneath his skin. She need only recall the knife that had been driven into his chest, a wound that should have killed him.
“I have to help him,” he said.
She frowned. “Why?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “Because…”
When he didn’t continue, she leaned forward. “Why do you need to help him? Why have you helped him, helped us? He is Alvritshai; you are human. There has always been a rift between us.”
“Not… always.” He winced as he tried to move.
Moiran snorted and wet her rag again, frowning as she noted the seepage of blood on his bandage had spread, no longer a few spots, but a circle the size of her thumb, its center a deep, dark red. “Always,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not at first. Not on the plains.” His voice was soft, his thoughts elsewhere.
She let him reminisce for a moment, then returned to the original question. “Why are you with him? Why do you follow him?”
He drew himself out of memory, stared at her a long moment, then said simply, “He’s all that I have left.”
She paused in her ministrations, pulled back. His answer was unexpected, and she found she didn’t know what to say, didn’t even really understand it.
He sensed it, and his eyes went hard. Struggling to sit up again, he repeated, “I need to help him.”
She set her hand firmly against his chest and pushed him down. “No, you don’t. Both sides want blood-for the death of Maarten and for Fedorem. They intend to get it, no matter the cost. There’s nothing you can do.”
“But-”
“No! One man-one human-will not affect the outcome of the battle! There’s nothing you can do to help!” They glared at each other, her hand still pressed into his chest.
When Colin’s gaze didn’t waver, she leaned forward. “You’re hurt. You can barely lift yourself off of the pallet, let alone rush off into a fight.”
Resignation flickered through the intent in his eyes.
But within the space of a breath, the determination returned.
“Find Eraeth,” he said.
“What?”
“Find Eraeth, Lord Aeren’s Protector,” he growled.
Moiran leaned back, suspicious. But when she removed her hand and he didn’t move, didn’t try to roll onto his side or lift his chest, she stood and walked toward the tent’s entrance.
The White Phalanx set to guard her and the Tamaell’s body turned the moment she stepped outside. “Tamaea?”
She shook her head and went to the chamber where she’d slept the night before, to her satchel. The cloth-wrapped vial Eraeth had given her, along with the knife that had been pulled from Colin’s chest, rested on top.
She unwrapped the vial and stared down at the clear liquid inside.
The sound of battle raged outside, louder here, more distinct. And harsh.
The first thing Aeren noticed, within moments of the three armies colliding, was that the Legion had changed.
The day before, he’d seen the cold desire in their faces, the need to kill, to take revenge against the Alvritshai demons that had broken their alliance with their King and then slaughtered him on this very land. He’d seen the intent in their eyes, had seen the rage. But it had all been leashed then.
It wasn’t leashed now.
The Legion struck in a frenzy of hatred, the men breaking ranks, throwing themselves upon the Alvritshai, screaming, howling, blades flashing downward, a hint of madness in their eyes. Aeren saw the first of his own House Phalanx fall, saw the first blood spray outward from a severed arm, the Alvritshai shrieking, hand clamped to the wound, even as the man who’d loped the limb off bowled past him, sword already cutting across another Alvritshai’s chest. Aeren fixated on him, on his silvered beard, on the scars cutting down along his cheek, etched in white, on the glint of gold in one ear, on the crazed green eyes. As more Alvritshai fell-to this man, to the hundred others behind him-Aeren kicked his horse forward, brought it sideways into the space left by another of the fallen, and stabbed the man through the neck.
He met the man’s gaze. He saw the madness, the whites of the eyes, as blood poured from his neck. And underneath the madness he saw the haunted soul beneath, a soul tortured by what had happened here over thirty years before, what he had seen on this battlefield when he had been barely old enough to shave.
Then the life in those eyes faded.
What he’d seen sent a shock through Aeren’s heart. He’d discounted the emotions of the Legion, the emotions of those that had been here before. He’d thought those emotions would have dulled over time. That was why he’d approached their King in the first place, why he’d gone to Corsair and the Needle and proposed a peace treaty.
But Lotaern was right. The humans hadn’t come to the plains to protect their lands from a threat that didn’t exist. They’d come to provoke a fight, to draw the Alvritshai here.
They’d come for revenge.
King Stephan had reined that rage in, had controlled it. But not anymore.
Aeren glanced toward where the King fought against the Tamaell Presumptive’s forces, the Legion and his own Phalanx jostling around him. His horse snorted and shifted away. All along the line, north and south, he saw the hatred, felt it, the raw emotion sending the Legion into the Alvritshai forces with reckless abandon. Men were dying on Alvirtshai blades due to that recklessness, but the Legion had men to spare.
The humans were going to overwhelm them, it was only a matter of time.
He glanced up at the sun, then back down to the Legion immediately before him, to their faces, to their eyes, to their contorted features and gritted teeth as they surged forward, meeting the Alvritshai resistance And Aeren felt his own anger building. These were the men who had killed his brother. He’d held his brother’s head in his hands on these fields, had listened to his brother choke out his last words, the hilt of a cattan pressed unwillingly into his bloody palm.
Aeren let the image grow his mind, let it consume him, then drove forward.
And the world faded into a collage of images, of bloody, screaming faces, of bodies pressing against the flanks of his horse, hands scrabbling at his legs, trying to pull him down, swords and daggers flashing in the sunlight. The outside world faded, everything centered on this one stretch of land, on this one struggle. He stabbed down at those hands trying to pull him free, drew blood, kicked at the bodies with his boots, slapped armor with the flat of his cattan and sank it deep into flesh at every opportunity. At one point, a man drove a dagger into his thigh. Aeren hissed air between his teeth at the pain, punched the hilt of his sword into the man’s face, felt bones crunch, blood and snot coating his fingers before the man stumbled back howling, his face nearly unrecognizable. Reaching down, Aeren yanked the dagger free, gasping as the pain flared, then drove the dagger into another man’s back, Eraeth skewering him from the front as he arched backward.
He met Eraeth’s eyes, saw the question there, but shook his head and turned, already shoving the pain back, knowing he couldn’t stop, not for such a wound. And without thought he cried out Aielan’s name, Eraeth joining him, the battle cry spreading down the Alvritshai lines. They’d been driven back by the fierceness of the Legion’s attack, had given ground, but with that cry the Alvritshai pressed forward, the lines shifting. Aeren’s group surged forward, ahead of the Tamaell Presumptive’s line to the left and Lord Jydell’s to the right, bulging outward. Jydell’s House rallied, keeping the lines connected, but with a collective cry of triumph, the Legion on the Tamaell Presumptive’s side broke through, creating a gap.
Legion poured into the gap, fanning out, hitting Aeren’s and Thaedoren’s lines from behind.
“Fall back!” Aeren shouted. “Fall back and close the gap!”
Horns blared-from the left, from behind, from two paces away-shattering the cacophony of the battle that had sunk into the background of Aeren’s mind. He winced as orders clashed on the air, but he couldn’t turn to look, to see whether anyone was reacting. He was too close to the front, nearly surrounded by the Legion, the men packed too closely together to effectively use their swords. They were howling, spit flecking their beards, and their free hands reached upward, caught hold of Aeren’s legs, his horse’s bridle, snagged the reins and his shirt, yanking him downward. He beat at them, dug his heels into his horse’s flank, felt the animal try to leap forward, felt the muscles flexing beneath him, felt the animal beginning to panic. It screamed, eyes wide, head tossing, but there were too many men, too many hands tugging, pulling, pushing. Slashing out in desperation, he felt his sword clang against armor, snag in cloth, sink into flesh, but he felt himself tip, the saddle loose beneath him. He began to fall. The world skewed, raving faces replaced by wide open sky. Hands grappled with him, drawing him down. He tasted bile, felt his heart shuddering in his chest, felt armor dig into his side as he tried to kick his feet free of the stirrups.
In a vividly clear moment, he found himself marveling at the position of the sun. Hours had passed. It was early afternoon.
And then his horse reared, feet kicking, mane flaring in that afternoon sun as it threw Aeren from its back. He felt one foot tangle in the stirrup, wrenching his leg-the one that had been stabbed earlier-upward and to the side as he fell. New pain seared through his hip, and then he struck the ground, the breath knocked from him. He twisted, foot still caught, slammed his cattan into the muddy ground for balance, tried to bring himself onto his elbows. As his body turned, he saw a sword drive upward into his horse’s chest, sink in deep.
The horse screamed-a raw, tortured sound that pierced Aeren’s gut.
Then the animal sagged to the side, began to collapse.
Aeren’s foot wrenched free, and he lost his precarious balance, his face slamming down into the mud. A bootheel pressed into the ground beside him and he rolled, caught someone else behind the knees, felt that person stumble, but he couldn’t see, half blinded by mud caked to his face.
The earth beneath him shuddered as the horse’s body hit. Men screamed, one or two voices cut off as they were crushed. Aeren scrambled backward on his ass, kicking his feet, using his elbows, trying to escape being trampled And then a hand-half-glimpsed-reached down, fingers digging into his shirt, into the edge of his armor, and hauled him up.
He staggered into Eraeth, his Protector’s face a contorted mix of fear, determination, and anger. He dragged Aeren back, plowing through the press of men, Rhyssal House Phalanx breaking to let them through when they saw who Eraeth led. Aeren’s leg twisted, and he hissed, tried to keep his weight off it, and then they broke through the back of the main force. Eraeth hauled him twenty paces farther across the churned mud of the flat and halted.
Aeren pulled himself upright, using Eraeth for support, then spat mud from his mouth, fingers pulling a clump of mud from his right eye. “Eraeth.” Eraeth’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Aeren asked, “What’s happened?”
“Our line is crumbling.”
Aeren swore.
He’d broken formation. He’d called on Aielan’s Light.
Eraeth must have seen the despair in Aeren’s eyes. “Not just here. It’s broken in at least three places. Stephan called in more men, fresh men.”
“The Duvoraen?”
“They’re split, trying to hold in two places, here and near Lord Waerren.”
“Waerren! He was on the dwarren front! Have the dwarren broken through?”
Eraeth shook his head. “They’ve realized the Legion is out for Alvritshai blood, not dwarren. They withdrew, back to a defensive line, nearly two hours ago.”
Aeren swore again. Clearing the last of the mud from his eye, he spun, oriented himself in the general chaos, saw the Alvritshai line in tatters, the Legion swarming over them all And then his gaze fell on the blazing white tabards of the Order of the Flame, still standing in tight formation in reserve.
“Lotaern,” Aeren whispered. He watched the Order silently for a moment, then added, “Why doesn’t he do anything?”
And at that moment, he saw Lotaern, Chosen of the Order, raise both hands to the sky.
Colin lay in the dim light of the Tamaell’s tent and tried not to writhe in agony. His entire chest hurt, an ache that went deep inside his lungs, deeper still, and it throbbed with every slow pulse of his blood. Each breath, no matter how shallow, brought the pain to the fore, so that it felt as if he were lying on waves on the ocean, the pain swelling, then fading, rising and falling, like a ship at sea.
But the pain never fell far.
He knew he shouldn’t be awake. When he’d tried to kill himself in the forest, when he’d driven the knife into his heart, he hadn’t woken for days. Something had drawn him up out of sleep. He just didn’t know what.
He frowned up at the ceiling of the tent, undulating in the wind, and tried to focus, to pull his mind away from the pain. But it was too intense. He couldn’t shove it aside, couldn’t ignore it. Yet even through the pain he could sense something. A shift, a tingling in his skin, not the prickling sensation he’d felt before Walter had appeared and slit the Tamaell’s throat, but close. That had felt like a breeze, as if someone had just walked past him, someone he couldn’t see.
This tingling came from everywhere, seemed to be seeping up from the earth beneath him.
He concentrated, let the sensation course over him, hoping it would dull the pain, but then Moiran returned. Alone.
She carried something in her hand, her face fixed in a bleak frown.
“Where’s Eraeth?” he asked, still shocked at how weak his voice sounded. Exhaustion lay just beneath the pain. He’d felt it when he’d tried to lift himself upright, when he’d tried to leave.
Moiran hesitated, then moved closer. “He’s on the field, with Lord Aeren, acting as his Protector. It is his place. It’s where he should be.” She stood over him, watched his face intently. “Why?”
Colin tried not to grimace. “He has something that I need.”
“What?”
He turned toward her, searched her face. “A vial. It… would help heal me.”
“Is it the Blood of Aielan?” When Colin frowned in confusion, she added, “The water of the ruanavriell.”
Settling back, Colin shook his head. “No. This is… more powerful. More dangerous. I’m not even certain Eraeth would agree to give it to me.”
Moiran watched him a long moment, then sighed and put what was in her hand on his chest. “He said that if you asked, I was to give you this.”
Colin breathed in deep, could smell the Lifeblood now: wet earth and dead leaves, musky and sharp. He should have noticed it earlier, when Moiran arrived, but its scent had mingled with the strange prickling sensation coursing upward from the ground. But now the scent hung heavy, dug deep into his gut.
He raised his left arm, halted when he saw the swirl of darkness beneath the bared skin, the marks darker than bruises. He shuddered, recalling the thick swirl of black on Walter’s face. His lips pressed together as he pulled the protective cloth away to reveal the tiny flask within.
Moving slowly, carefully, he held the flask up to the light, peered into the clear liquid within, at what looked like water.
He could feel it, could sense the power behind it, the presence. And as it always did, that presence woke a depthless ache in him, sent tremors of pain coursing down his arm. Need filled him, a need he’d fought in the long weeks after leaving the forest, a need that he thought he’d finally conquered when he handed the flask over to Eraeth to protect.
He knew now that the need, the ache, would never go away, that he could bury it, but it would return as soon as he drew near the Lifeblood.
“What is it?” Moiran asked.
Colin turned, surprised to find her kneeling beside him. He hadn’t heard her move, too absorbed with the flask, with the power coursing through his arm, through his chest.
Through his blood.
“Open it,” he said, handing her the flask. He couldn’t open it himself, not with how tightly he’d sealed it, and not with one arm. He’d tried to lift the other, but the pain in his chest had been too harsh. “Open it carefully. Don’t spill any of it on yourself.”
“Why not?” Moiran asked.
“Because I don’t know what it will do to you.”
She stared into his eyes, her own narrowing.
Then she unsealed the cap. “What will it do to you?”
“Heal me.” Which was a lie. It wouldn’t heal him, wouldn’t close the wound that bled in his chest, wouldn’t stitch skin and muscle and bone back together. That wasn’t the Lifeblood’s power.
But it would take care of the pain… for a price.
Moiran glared at him. “You can’t stop this. You can’t halt the fighting. One man-”
“You’re right,” he interrupted. “I can’t end the battle… but there’s one man who can. And I can convince him. But I can’t do it from here.”
Her glare intensified And then, in a low, curt, bitter tone, she said, “Men.”
She removed the cap.
The scent of the Lifeblood flooded the tent, a hundred times stronger than before, and Colin gasped, his entire body trembling now, the ache in his stomach almost as strong as the pain in his chest.
“Let me have it.”
Moiran handed the flask to him reluctantly. He held it reverentially before him, let its power wash over him, soothe him.
Then, with one quick gesture, he tipped it into his mouth, felt its coolness against his tongue, tasted its sweetness, its pureness And then he swallowed.
Nothing happened.
Aeren watched, tension bleeding down his arms, tightening across his shoulders, as Lotaern kept his arms raised.
And then the acolytes behind him began to move.
They fanned out, each group of four heading out from Lotaern’s position, radiating outward, like the rays of the sun. When they were fifty paces from the edge of the fighting, the groups of four broke apart, each acolyte facing the chaos of the lines. Each drew his cattan, nearly in unison, and Aeren realized that Lotaern was issuing orders. He could see the Chosen’s mouth moving, but the battle itself drowned out his words.
The acolytes held their cattans to the sky, then reversed them and drove their points into the ground with both hands on the hilts, kneeling as they did so, heads bowed.
“What are they doing?” Eraeth asked.
Aeren shook his head, lips pursed.
Lotaern was still speaking. Aeren strained, tried to make out what was being said, but it was Eraeth who answered his own question.
“He’s chanting.”
“What?”
Eraeth stilled, drew and held a breath, concentrating. “Part of the Scripts.”
“They’re all chanting,” Aeren said abruptly. “They’re all chanting the same thing.”
Aeren felt it on the air first. A cessation of the winds, a silence beneath the rumbling roar of the fighting still taking place on all sides. Then the air… thickened. It pressed in around him, made it harder to breathe.
But even as this began to register, the ground trembled. Tremors coursed up through Aeren’s boots, shuddered through his feet into his legs, low at first, increasing steadily, until they couldn’t be ignored. On all sides, those at the edges of the fighting halted, stepped back, glanced around in confusion And the earth in front of the kneeling acolytes suddenly exploded skyward. Mud boiled, spewing up chunks of sod, clumps of dirt and roots and trampled grass, seething upward in a huge arc, as if something were trying to emerge from the ground itself, trying to shove its way free. Aeren caught glimpses of what lay beneath the churning surface: a white glow, vibrant and intense, so pure it hurt his eyes. The earth continued to fountain for a breath, two Then it began to push outward, away from the acolytes who still knelt, still chanted, heads bent. It plowed forward, mud and dirt erupting like geysers, shooting ten feet into the air, like spume from the ocean as it struck the rocky shore. It surged forward like the swell of a wave, rumbling through Aeren’s legs and up into his chest, juddering in his teeth.
The human men who had broken through the Alvritshai lines were caught by surprise, too stunned and confused to move. The boiling earth knocked them off of their feet, buried most beneath heaps of dirt, their screams cut short. Before each of them vanished, Aeren saw a tongue of that brilliant whiteness beneath the ground lick out, touch the person an instant before he was engulfed, as if tasting them. Then the arcing wave of moving earth reached the first Alvritshai. It flung them to the ground, but didn’t bury them, leaving them behind, shaken, struggling to rise.
“It’s Aielan’s Light,” Eraeth said suddenly. “The whiteness beneath the earth-it’s Aielan’s Light.”
Aeren’s brow creased skeptically But those Alvritshai near them had already heard. They whispered it beneath their breath, muttered prayers, gestured in awe, the reaction spreading outward.
On the field, the raging earth hit the most crowded parts of the battle, and at the same moment the acolytes rose from where they knelt, jerked their cattans free from the earth and pointed them toward the sky, and roared, “For Aielan! For the Order! For the Flame!”
Everyone in Aeren’s vicinity gasped.
The acolytes’ blades were limned with white light.
They rushed into the earth’s wake, pausing to kill any of the human forces who hadn’t been buried, their motions quick, merciless, hitting throat or heart before sprinting onward, into the heart of the fighting.
But the fighting had lurched to a halt, both Alvritshai and human forces stunned, even as the disturbed earth bore down on them. Some shook the shock off and began to run, fleeing toward their own lines or simply fleeing before the earth and the white light beneath. Many of the Alvritshai heard the acolytes’ war cry. To either side, Aeren felt his own men rallying, saw hands tightening on hilts, eyes hardening from shock to anger.
Thrusting his own cattan into the air, he bellowed, “For Aielan! For Rhyssal!”
And then he charged toward the nearest group of the Legion, whose attention was fixed on the approaching ridge of earth. His leg burned with pain from the knife wound and being twisted in the death of his horse, but Aeren killed two of the Legionnaires before they began to react, a few bringing swords to bear, still others breaking away toward the west. Aeren felt the writhing earth bearing down on him, felt the Legion he fought growing desperate And then it struck.
He was lifted off the ground, thrown by the force of the earth. Dirt pummeled him from all sides, flung so high and with such force that he could taste it. He breathed it in, choked and coughed on it, felt something lick up along his leg, felt its cold touch, felt it burning against his skin, recognized it as Aielan’s Light, as the same fire he had passed through to earn his pendant in the Order. Visions of that moment, of descending into the heart of the mountain beneath Caercaern, of traversing the empty halls and corridors, of marveling at the massive pillars, the carved stonework, the delicate stone stairs, flashed through his mind. But this was merely a taste of what he’d endured when he’d reached the final chamber, deeper even than the halls, hidden within the rough hewn catacombs below the ancient city where the pool of white fire blazed. There, he had submerged himself in the fire, allowed it to consume him, allowed himself to be exposed completely to Aielan and her judgment Then he was falling. He struck the ground hard, tumbled onto his side, spitting grit from his mouth, scrubbing it from his face. Alvritshai were coughing and hacking on all sides, a few groaning, holding their arms or legs where they’d twisted them on landing. Aeren dragged himself to his feet, wincing at the renewed pain in his leg, fresh blood staining his breeches, but he stumbled toward where a young human boy lay half buried in the sod, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth.
He never saw Aeren coming. His eyes were wide, staring off into the distance, tears streaming down his face, as he murmured, “I shouldn’t have taken the coin from Codger. I shouldn’t have taken the cart.”
Aeren hesitated.
A blade sank into the boy’s chest and Aeren spun.
Eraeth withdrew his cattan and met Aeren’s accusing glare stoically. “The battle isn’t over.” He motioned toward the plains behind them.
The wave of earth and white light had diminished. As Aeren watched, it threw up a few fitful geysers, as if it were gasping a last breath, and then it rumbled into stillness.
He glanced back at Lotaern in time to see the Chosen, arms still lifted, stagger, then fall, body crumpling.
Turning back, he gazed beyond where the earth had finally settled
… and saw the remains of the Legion reserve. Hundreds of men, on foot and in the saddle, waiting for the order to attack. To the side, from the Tamaell Presumptive’s position, Alvritshai and Legion were picking themselves up and dusting themselves off.
Including King Stephan.
The leader of the coastline Provinces spat to one side, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sword still clutched tight in his other hand.. . and then he gestured.
A lone runner raised a single flag and began waving it back and forth.
And the reserve unit began to move.
Colin stood on the ridge above the Alvritshai encampment overlooking the field of battle. The dwarren stood to one side, their lines withdrawn, disengaged, although they were riled. The Legion and Alvritshai forces were in disarray, no clear lines on either side, men and Alvritshai pulling themselves up from the ground, horns beginning to sound, everyone beginning to regroup even as the Legion reserves charged toward the battle.
He’d arrived in time to witness the wave of earth, had seen it toss the Alvritshai and the Legion aside like stones as it rippled across the plains, then dissipated. He’d felt the power the acolytes had called thrumming through his feet, had felt it tingling in his skin and vibrating through him, in counterpoint to the pure ecstasy of the Lifeblood throbbing in his veins. The pain from the knife wound in his chest had receded, had become nothing more than a minor nuisance, an occasional tug that made him wince if he twisted or turned too fast or too sharply. The exhaustion that lay underneath the pain had also vanished, replaced by euphoria. He breathed in the plains air, tasted it, savored it, felt the coppery taste of blood against his tongue from the death below. He touched the desperation, the sweat, and the terror of the men who fought there, soft as silk, and reveled in the sounds of the horns, the shouts, the thunder of running feet, each distinct and brittle in his ears. Each breath, each heartbeat, each movement pricked his skin, tickling in the hairs at the base of his neck and along his arms. He bathed in the sensation, knowing it would cost him in the end, in the darkness of the mark on his arm, in the claiming of his soul by the Well, but he didn’t care.
The price was small. Nearly infinitesimal.
With the battlefield wrapped around him, he focused, picked out the banners of the Tamaell Presumptive, the pennants of the King of the Provinces, and then he reached out And halted time.
Picking his way down from the slope, he crossed the stilled battlefield, slid past individuals fighting to the death, around groups no more organized than a brawl, past horses in mid- rear, men falling, hands outstretched to catch themselves, unaware that they were already dead. He wound through splashes of blood frozen in midair, ducked beneath swords in full swing. He made his way through it all.
Until he stood before a single individual, the man he’d come to speak to, the man he’d come to convince:
King Stephan.
He peered into the King’s face, into his gray-green eyes, locked on his opponent, expression fierce as he prepared to drive his sword through an Alvritshai’s heart. He could feel the man beneath, could feel the vibrant energy of his life, even though everything was still, motionless.
Then he caught sight of another man, the King’s commander, Tanner Dain. The Legion commander fought beside the King, was in the act of stepping back, an Alvritshai’s body falling away from his blade.
Colin hesitated, then drew the mantle of the Lifeblood’s power around himself, like a cloak. He positioned himself so that Tanner Dain would see him the moment time resumed, but close enough so he could touch Stephan.
Then he let his grasp on time fall away.
Stephan roared as his blade plunged into the Alvritshai’s chest, blood flying as he drew back, half turned Then halted as he caught sight of Colin, dressed in an Alvritshai shirt, open at the front to keep it from getting soaked in the blood seeping through the bandages across his chest. As a frown creased his brow, as recognition began to flare in Tanner Dain’s eyes and he began to lurch forward, Colin turned to the commander of the King’s guard and said, “I’ll return him in a moment.”
Then he reached out and snagged the King by the arm, gathering the Well’s power around himself and Stephan And Traveled.