“Don’t let go,” Colin said.
The tenor of Colin’s voice brought Stephan to a halt, his instinctive response to pull away from the hand that held him in a viselike grip, even as the world around them shuddered, slowed, then halted. Colin watched Stephan’s face intently, saw the man lurch as he enveloped him with the Lifeblood. It was easier to pull Stephan back with the Lifeblood flowing so cleanly, so recently, through his body. There was no wrench as there had been with Moiran as they fled the occumaen, no anchor trying to hold him in place, as with Aeren and Thaedoren in the parley tent.
But the transition wasn’t completely smooth either. Stephan gasped, his eyes going wild, darting around, seeing the entire battle in mid-motion, a battle he’d been part of only a moment before, adrenaline racing through his blood.
His gaze fell on Tanner Dain, his commander already leaning forward, foot poised to take a step in Colin’s direction, expression caught in transition, hardening into rage.
He turned to Colin. His terror had died. He’d already begun collecting himself. “What have you done?”
“I’ve halted time.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s something you need to see.”
“And what if I don’t want to see it?”
Colin shrugged. “I can’t force you to go, can’t force you to watch. All you have to do is break contact with me, free yourself from my grip, and you’ll return.”
Stephan’s mouth twitched into a sneer. “What is it that you think I need to see?”
Colin looked into his eyes, into the derision he saw reflected there, and said, “Your father.”
The sneer faltered, a look of horror, of hope filling the void that it left. For a startling moment that felt like eternity, Stephan lay exposed, the mask of rage and hatred and despair that he’d worn for the past thirty years gone, torn away, the man beneath-the boy who’d been transformed on these fields, who’d been murdered by Khalaek and the Alvritshai just as his father had been-peering through, vulnerable and young.
But then the mask slammed back into place, rage twisting Stephan’s face. “My father is dead,” he growled, then tensed to break free.
“He’s dead, but you can still see him. You can see how he died. You can see what really happened, who really killed him.”
“I’ve already seen how he died. I was there! I saw it with my own eyes!” He began pulling away from Colin, struggling, although half-heartedly. Perhaps he’d grown weary from the fight. He made no move to shift his sword to his free hand, to threaten Colin with it when it was obvious Colin himself held no weapon.
“But you saw it at a distance,” Colin said. “You don’t know what really happened. You’ve lived the last thirty years not knowing the truth, told one thing and another, until not even those who were there know what they saw and what they’ve learned to see, what they came to see based on rumor, not on fact.” Colin’s voice had deepened as Stephan’s struggles increased, his teeth clamped together. But Stephan suddenly let out a harsh cry and stopped trying to shake his arm free.
They glared at each other, both breathing hard.
“I can show you what truly happened,” Colin said, voice hoarse. “I can show you who turned against your father first, who followed and who didn’t.”
Stephan still didn’t believe him. Colin could see it in his tortured expression, as he squeezed his eyes shut and bent his head, his shoulders.
He remained in that bowed position a long moment, mostly still, jaw clenched.
When he lifted his head, he’d calmed himself, although his eyes shone with hatred. “How? I’ve been told a hundred stories, heard a thousand songs. How can you show me the truth?”
Something deep inside Colin relaxed. “I can take you there.”
He reached out with the Lifeblood, still pulsing through him, still strong, and then he pushed. Pushed against time. Not halting it, not slowing it. No. Those were simpler tasks. Instead-as he’d done so many times before on the outskirts of the forest, where his mother and father and the rest of the wagon train had stood and faced the Shadows-he pushed back, pushed through the barrier and against the force trying to shove him into his proper place in time’s flow.
Stephan sucked in a sharp breath as the figures around him began to move, edging backward, swords pulling out of punctured chests, unslicing throats, uncutting arms and legs. Colin saw the image of Stephan himself, howling in reverse, but before the real Stephan could turn and see himself Colin concentrated and shoved, the reversal picking up speed, until all motion was smeared, then blurred, and yet still he pushed harder. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and Stephan took an unconscious step closer to him as time slid back even faster. The armies retreated, the sun set in the east, rose in the west, the field suddenly enveloped again in warfare, until they retreated again, the parley tent popping up from its collapse. Colin saw his body being carried in Eraeth’s arms as the Protector raced backward into the tent, caught a glimpse of Eraeth’s stricken face a moment before he vanished back inside. He staggered, surprised by that glimpse And in that moment, as the reversal of time lurched and slowed, he saw how the Wraith-how Walter-had gotten into the tent without being seen.
Khalaek’s men had held the tent flaps aside.
In a flash, he recalled seeing Khalaek’s aide standing beside the inside flap. A second had stood outside, guarding the tent with the others.
It would only have taken a simple signal-a whistle, a hummed refrain. Both men could lift the flap at the same moment, keep it open only a moment. With time slowed, or halted, Walter wouldn’t even need a single breath to slip inside, wouldn’t have even needed to appear at all with the tent flaps already pushed aside And even as he thought it, Walter flickered into view, ducked down between the opening and into the darkness within.
All to bring about the Tamaell’s death. Thaedoren’s as well. All so that Khalaek could ascend in the Evant, seize control and become Tamaell himself. An assassination within Caercaern would have been harder to manipulate, harder to explain. There would be no one to blame except an Alvritshai.
But here, on the battlefield, with an assassin so obviously human if he was seen at all…
Colin felt his rage boiling higher, his breath quickening, his heart thundering. He wanted to reach out and kill Walter as he slid into that darkness, wanted to strangle him But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the real Walter, the real Wraith. This was the Walter that was. This Walter couldn’t be stopped. He’d already assassinated the Tamaell, nearly killed the Tamaell Presumptive and Aeren as well. This Wraith had already set Lord Khalaek’s plans in motion.
But neither Khalaek nor Walter had planned on Colin.
He’d stopped the Tamaell Presumptive’s death and had implicated Khalaek in Fedorem’s.
Now he intended to halt the conflict with Stephan.
Straightening with purpose, he caught Stephan staring at him in confusion. His gaze flicked toward the tent flap, toward where Walter had vanished. “Who was that?”
“The man who killed the Tamaell.”
“I don’t know him. He wasn’t part of the Legion, he wasn’t one of my men.”
“I know, and the Tamaell Presumptive knows, but they don’t.” He motioned toward the Alvritshai army grimly. “The White Phalanx within the tent saw a human kill their ruler. And what one member of the army sees-”
“They all see,” Stephan finished curtly. His gaze rested on the Alvritshai banners. “They all think the Legion is behind the Tamaell’s death.”
“Not all. The lords of the Evant thought so at first, as did the Tamaell Presumptive. I showed them that one of the lords himself was behind the attack. The man you saw entering the tent… is like me. He’s tasted the sarenavriell, drunk from the Well of Sorrows. He’s no longer human.”
“One of the Lords of the Evant?” Stephan asked. His nostrils flared, chin lifting.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Colin hesitated. “Lord Khalaek.”
Stephan’s eyes narrowed. “The lord inside the tent. The one who rushed to attack.”
“Yes.”
Colin allowed Stephan a moment to absorb the information, saw it settling into place in Stephan’s mind. He relaxed his grip on the King’s arm, no longer afraid Stephan would bolt at the first opportunity.
But he couldn’t wait long. He could feel the power of the Lifeblood draining from him, absorbed by the effort it took to hold them here, in this moment. He still had to push them back thirty years, back to the first battle here at the Escarpment, back to where all of this had begun, at least for Stephan.
So as soon as he saw Stephan’s gaze shift from internal thoughts to him, he shoved hard.
They leaped backward, the world blurring, moving so fast that Colin could only catch glimpses of images as they passed. Most were of the flat, sometimes sunlit, the sky wide and open, sometimes black as pitch, the night sky clouded over. He saw suns set and rise, stars glitter, seasons pass. The moon flickered, full and gibbous, a sickle, new, all at different positions in the sky. Snow blanketed the flat, a rarity, although becoming more common; grass waved in gusty winds, yellow one instant, young green the next; a herd of gaezels grazed, then scattered; rain poured down in sheets as blue-purple lightning scored the heavens.
And then Colin caught the first glimpses of the aftermath of a battle: columns of smoke for the dead, flocks of carrion birds so thick they darkened the sky.
He eased up on the flow of time, the blur settling down to a smear. The black smoke vanished, the dead rose, sunlight poured down to glitter on spears, on swords, on armor and banners, pennants and flags. It bathed the horses and men of three armies, fell on a dusty expanse of flat land at the edge of the Escarpment, the deadly cliffs plummeting to the west.
The armies were positioned differently from the current battle. The Legion, led by King Maarten, by the Governors of the Provinces, a young Stephan-not yet eighteen years of age-among the ranks, held the south. They were already lined up in groups of forty, spread out, reserves fidgeting in the back and on the eastern flank, all of them facing the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the other House Phalanx to the north, on the far side of the flat. Colin could see the now familiar banners of the Houses of the Evant, could pick them out against the clear sky as the summer sun rose. He could feel the heat, could smell the grass, not yet trampled into the earth by thousands of gaezels.
With a start, he realized that he and Stephan stood on the field in the same position where Stephan had been battling the Alvritshai when Colin had stolen him away. But here, in this time, it was where the dwarren would be arriving at any moment. “We need to move,” he said.
“Why?” Stephan murmured. His eyes were locked on his own forces to the south, were centered on the highest banners.
On his father.
His expression was profound, yet unreadable, too full of scattered emotions.
“Because we’re standing where the dwarren Riders will be in another ten minutes.”
Stephan looked at him, and at the same moment the sound of more than a thousand gaezels thundered out of the distance as the dwarren force rose over a far-off ridge.
“Move,” Stephan said, and began to run. South, toward his own ranks.
Colin was dragged along behind. He knew they couldn’t be trampled by the gaezels, but he’d already been in the midst of one of their stampedes and didn’t want to experience that again. Heart bursting, he stumbled after the King, his shorter legs threatening to give out beneath him as he tried to keep up with Stephan’s pace, the sound of the dwarren’s approach rising behind them.
Then the roar of the gaezels shifted. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them swerve, banking away from the Alvritshai to the north, arcing around toward the Legion to the south, toward Stephan and Colin’s position. But Colin had seen the dwarren perform this maneuver before, and he knew that the arc wouldn’t reach them, would cut in sharply at the edge as they regrouped and re- formed, so he slowed, dragging Stephan back with him.
They watched as the dwarren reassembled, the thunder of their passage dying down, their drums silent. Their line was curved, facing both the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx and the Legion.
Colored flags began waving among the Legion, men readying, shouts rising into the stillness. Horns blew from the Alvritshai line. Tensions grew, almost tangible, roiling on the air between the three armies.
And then a signal was passed. Colin didn’t see it-they were too distant-but he felt it on the air, felt it shift.
The Legion charged with a hoarse battle cry, the Alvritshai as well, the dwarren surging forward on their gaezels as their drums began pounding. Stephan took a step forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, as if he yearned to join the battle, as if the battle cry had pulled him forward, but Colin held him in check.
“I remember this,” he said, his eyes darting over the field. The Legion and Phalanx were rushing toward each other, the dwarren coming in from the side But then the human and Alvritshai ranks pivoted. Instead of heading directly toward each other, those nearest the cliffs of the Escarpment began turning inward, those closest to the dwarren slowing down, until the two forces merged… and fell upon the dwarren.
“I remember this,” Stephan said, louder. He turned toward Colin. “What have you done? Is it real?”
“It’s real,” Colin murmured. “I’ve brought you back to the battlefield, so you can witness what really happened.”
“Then I have to stop it,” Stephan growled. He began moving toward the fighting, the battle playing out before them both, the dwarren Riders shoving hard against the Legion, pushing them back, the Alvritshai doing the same, the three races eddying back and forth, the tension Colin had felt on the air broken, shattered, replaced now by desperation. The tension had encompassed the entire field; the desperation was focused on individual battles, the clash of swords and weapons between men. “I have to warn my father!”
“You can’t,” Colin said, and when Stephan ignored him, continued toward the battle, plowing stubbornly through the grass, he dug in his heels and jerked Stephan back. “You can’t!”
Stephan turned on him, fist clenched so hard Colin could feel the muscles in his arm contract. He raised his sword threateningly, but Colin met his gaze steadily, saw the raw pain there.
He sighed, let his own pain over Karen’s death at the hands of the Shadows and his inability to go back and warn her bleed into his voice. “It doesn’t work that way, Stephan. I can bring you here, I can show you, but neither of us can change anything. It’s already happened. It can’t be altered.” He swallowed but heard the roughness creep into his voice nonetheless. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”
Stephan shoulders tensed… then drooped.
He lowered the sword, his entire body sagging. “So what do we do?” he asked, bitterness edging the resignation.
“We watch.”
He closed his eyes, then drew in a deep breath and let it out in a slow, emotion-riddled sigh.
And they watched. The battle ebbed and flowed, fluid and violent. Colin found himself thinking back to the storyteller at the inn in Portstown, to when he’d first heard of the battle at the Escarpment. But that had been a story, told after the fact, tweaked and twisted to manipulate the teller’s audience, colored by the emotions and half-memories of those who were here.
The battle itself was different. It wasn’t as smooth, as concise or coordinated. It wasn’t as honorable. Men were torn from their horses and crushed underfoot. Gaezels skewered others with their lethal horns. Groups were separated from the lines as dwarren broke through, were surrounded, then slaughtered. And when the battle shifted, it left behind the dead and wounded, men and Alvritshai and dwarren crawling on elbows to escape, or dragging themselves with one arm as their life’s blood soaked into the grasses beneath them.
It was vicious, and cruel, and merciless.
And as the sun shifted overhead, the tide turned. The dwarren Riders had held the Legion and the Phalanx off, had fought fiercely, but they’d been unprepared for the combined forces, for the alliance between the humans and the Alvritshai. As morning bled into afternoon, the dwarren forces grew weary. Their responses slowed, reinforcements called to block breaks in the line didn’t arrive on time, and men and Alvritshai spilled through the holes in the defenses.
An hour after midday, the tenor of the dwarren drums changed, and the dwarren began to retreat.
Colin recalled what the storyteller said happened next and looked toward Stephan. He’d cleaned and sheathed his sword as they watched, had relaxed, his eyes intent on the field, analyzing, shaking his head occasionally as something significant happened.
Now, though, he took an involuntary step forward.
On the flat below, signals were passed, flags flashing in the sunlight. A large force broke away from the rear of the human ranks, led by a single man on horseback.
Led by Stephan.
Colin could hear the young Stephan’s battle cry as he charged toward the dwarren flanks. Men broke away from the army in answer to his cry, until a hundred men trailed him.
He struck the retreating dwarren’s flank first, at least ten strides ahead of those that followed him. He drove into the ranks, sword flying, was almost absorbed by the dwarren’s reaction before the rest of his contingent arrived.
On the ridge where they stood watching, Stephan shook his head. “Stupid. Stupid and foolish.”
Colin said nothing.
On the flat, the Alvritshai surged around the dwarren’s other flank, joining forces with Stephan and the Legion, so that the dwarren were encircled. They pushed hard, the dwarren shoving back, but there were too many against them. They were hemmed in on all sides, with no escape.
Except the one the Legion and Phalanx offered them. To the west, the two lines parted, as if crumbling beneath the dwarren onslaught. And the dwarren seized the opening, surging through the break Only to find themselves at the edge of the Escarpment.
They turned back, Alvritshai blocking them to the north, the Legion to the south, the combined forces-led by Stephan-pressing them from the east.
The dwarren closest to the edge milled about, dashed to the north, to the south, their own line pushing them from the east. Their motions became frantic as the space between the Riders and the cliff decreased, as the realization of what was to come spread through their ranks. But the humans and Alvritshai didn’t slow, didn’t waver. They continued to advance, inexorably, dead falling in the hundreds as the dwarren became more and more frenzied, more and more desperate.
When the first few dwarren, still astride their gaezels, tumbled over the edge of the cliff, Colin stirred. Sickened, he turned away, unable to watch as the human and Alvritshai ranks closed, the knot of dwarren dwindling. But he couldn’t block out the screams of the dwarren, the inhuman shrieks of the gaezels.
He paused at the look of horror on Stephan’s face. He’d expected to see triumph, or vindication.
He met Colin’s gaze. “I don’t remember the screams,” he said. “All I remember is a blood-rush of noise, filling my head. All I remember is heat and sweat and a trembling, as if my entire body were vibrating. And exhaustion. I remember feeling exhausted.”
“We need to move,” Colin said. “If you want to know the truth, we need to move to the cliff ’s edge.”
He nodded, lips pressing tight together.
They walked through the grass, to the edge of the dry and dusty flat, to the edge of the battle. They moved among the dead and dying, scattered at first, the bodies piled thicker as they passed the central part of the battlefield. The stench was overpowering, the death ghastly. Colin stared at the faces as he passed-Alvritshai, dwarren, and human-saw heads crushed in, faces shattered, throats slit and limbs severed. He saw bodies cut from shoulder to shoulder, throat to groin. He saw horses impaled on spears, gaezels riddled with arrows.
And then the death became too much. He fixed his eyes on the armies milling around the edge of the cliff, Alvritshai and Legion mixed together as the last of the dwarren died. They moved among them, weaving in and out through the crush of bodies, through the reek of a day’s worth of drenching sweat and spilled blood.
They were halfway to the Escarpment when a ragged cheer broke out.
Stephan pushed forward faster, and Colin followed, keeping up. Stephan knew when the Alvritshai had turned on his father; he’d been here.
They broke through the combined army into an open area, King Maarten and his escort on the left, staring across the expanse at Tamaell Fedorem and the Lords of the Evant on the right. Stephan-the boy, not yet eighteen-stood back, behind the Governors of the Provinces who were present, behind their escorts, everyone in the Legion cheering, clapping each other on the back. Someone ruffled the young Stephan’s hair, and he grinned uncontrollably, ducking out of the way.
Maarten was grinning as well, shaking hands with a few of his Governors. One of them leaned forward and shouted something over the noise, and Maarten burst out in laughter, the sound rolling over the general noise.
And then the King turned toward the Alvritshai, toward where Tamaell Fedorem waited, his lords arrayed behind him.
The Alvritshai were more subdued. They did not shout or cheer, although most of those behind the Tamaell, behind the Evant, were exultant, grinning in weariness and exhaustion. Those mixed in with the Legion endured the slaps of their allies with tight smiles.
But the Lords of the Evant and the Tamaell himself stood formally. Khalaek stood to the Tamaell’s left, a few paces away, another between them. He had not yet risen high enough in the Evant to stand beside the Tamaell. Colin did not see Aeren, but then he realized that Aeren had not been part of the Evant yet, that his brother had ruled the House at the time of the battle… and that his brother had died here, on these fields.
And one of the Lords of the Evant was missing. Aeren must have been away when this had happened. He must have been with his brother.
Seeing the Alvritshai waiting, King Maarten quieted, the silence spreading outward in a wave, not quite dying on the outskirts of the army.
But here, at its center, at the edge of the Escarpment, the celebration stilled.
Maarten and Fedorem regarded each other over that stillness. Maarten sheathed his sword, Fedorem doing the same, and they both stepped forward.
“It is done,” Tamaell Fedorem said in Andovan.
Maarten chuckled. “It is done.”
Maarten extended his hand. Fedorem smiled, reached forward to shake it.
The moment trembled. Colin felt it, its weight bearing down upon him. All of the fighting, all of the conflict between the two races, between them and the dwarren-all of it would end here. An accord had been reached, an alliance struck. Everything would change.
Except that at that moment, Khalaek, Peloroun, and a lord Colin did not recognize but who wore the colors of House Baene, leaped forward, knives gleaming.
Maarten had enough time to lurch back before Khalaek’s blade buried itself in his neck, above his armor. The Lord of House Baene sank his own blade in Maarten’s side, even as Khalaek jerked his free and struck again and again. Lord Peloroun grabbed Fedorem’s shoulders, the Tamaell clearly stunned, and hauled him back. The rest of the Lords of the Evant looked as stunned as Fedorem, eyes wide in shock, Lord Barak appearing confused.
They weren’t given time to recover. Someone in the Legion-one of the Governors, or perhaps one of the men who made up Maarten’s personal guard-shouted, “Betrayal! They’ve murdered the King!”
Shock transformed to horror and rage in the space of a breath. The Legion, its Governors at the forefront, surged forward. Khalaek roared something in Alvritshai, something Colin didn’t recognize, and suddenly the air was filled with hundreds of arrows, launched from the rear of the Alvritshai army. The Alvritshai at the front took a moment longer to recover, as if they couldn’t quite believe what had happened, what was happening, even as the arrows cut into the Legion itself, dozens dying in an instant.
Then the human army overwhelmed them.
In its midst, Colin saw the lord he didn’t recognize cut down, even as he drew his knife from Maarten’s body. Khalaek drew his cattan, pierced the first enraged Legionnaire to make it to him, then thrust the body into those behind as he retreated. Through the chaos, he saw the young Stephan screaming, his voice lost among the crash of weapons, the roaring outcry. He tried to press forward, but the Legionnaires around the young heir were dragging him back, the rest of the Legion surging around him, protecting him, all of their faces locked in rage.
The elder Stephan watched in silence, even as the battle began anew around them. He watched as he was pulled away, drawn to safety, watched as the Legion surrounded his fallen father’s body, watched as the two armies fell upon each other, the moment of accord shredding before his eyes.
“Stop it,” he said, his voice dull. When Colin didn’t react fast enough, he spun, eyes blazing, and shouted, “Stop it! I don’t want to see any more!”
Reaching out, Colin seized the moment and halted it.
He waited, giving Stephan time to think, time to adjust to what he’d seen. He hadn’t been certain what he would find here. Aeren hadn’t been able to tell him, because he hadn’t witnessed it himself. He’d only known what Aeren suspected, what Aeren had learned from those lords who had been here and were willing to speak to him.
But what had happened seemed clear.
Stephan finally stirred.
Without turning, he said softly, “Take me back.”
And Colin did.
“To me!” Eraeth roared at Aeren’s side. “House Rhyssal to its lord!”
To either side, the remains of Aeren’s Phalanx pulled back desperately toward Eraeth’s voice as he continued to shout. Aeren didn’t have time to count how many still survived, too intent on keeping the Legion from overrunning his position completely.
Lotaern and the Order of the Flames’ flaming swords and the churning earth might have worked if the Legion hadn’t had fresh reinforcements waiting.
Now, the Alvritshai lines had shattered completely, pockets of Alvritshai fighting desperately all across the field, all of them trying to retreat toward the Tamaell Presumptive’s center, his horns blaring the retreat, issuing no other orders except to fall back, the direction of the retreat changing every moment as Thaedoren withdrew as well. They’d already been driven beyond where the acolytes had called forth Aielan’s Light from the earth. They were approaching the ridge overlooking the flat, beyond which stood the Alvritshai camp.
And the Legion would not stop. Aeren could feel it. With a sinking sensation, Aeren realized that the Alvritshai could not win, that they might not even survive the battle, as the dwarren Riders had not survived thirty years before.
And then shouts rang out, spreading through the mass of Legion before him. He couldn’t see past the crush of men, but he felt the pressure pushing the Alvritshai back decrease, the faces of the men before him turning to look back, exclaiming in anger, in disbelief. Those at the front didn’t stop fighting until they realized that those behind were retreating, backing off step by careful step.
When the men Aeren grappled with finally withdrew, Aeren gasped and sagged, one hand going to his side, coming away black with blood. His own blood. He hadn’t even felt the cut, hadn’t seen the blade that had scored there, opening the flesh beneath the edge of his armor. It wasn’t a mortal wound, but he placed his hand over it and pressed, trying to halt the blood flow. His armor weighed down on him, his cattan heavy, but he remained upright as Eraeth staggered to his side, his own face covered in blood from a wound to his head.
To either side, the Legion were retreating, leaving the decimated Alvritshai behind. Aeren picked out Thaedoren and closed his eyes in relief, began counting up the rest of the Lords of the Evant. He saw Peloroun and Jydell, Waerren and Vaersoom, Waerren’s forces cut down to fewer than fifty men. None of Lord Barak’s House remained, and he didn’t see Barak either. Altogether, he estimated there were fewer than fifteen hundred Alvritshai remaining on the field.
Over four thousand had arrived at the flat.
The loss of life sickened him. It would take decades for the Alvritshai to recoup such death.
If they recouped at all.
“What…” Aeren heaved; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, “… happened?”
“Look,” Eraeth said, and pointed.
Turning, Aeren saw where the main bulk of the Legion’s forces had regrouped. He saw the flags of the King, but not the King himself, saw those flags break away and head toward two figures walking toward them, a small group of Legion slightly behind.
Aeren frowned. “That’s Colin.”
“With the King.”
They shared a look. Then: “I thought Colin was with Moiran in the Tamaell’s tents.”
Eraeth’s frown deepened. He nearly growled. “He was.”
On the flat, the King and Colin merged with the approaching contingent of banners and horsemen. After a pause, the King led the group back to the main army as ragged cheers broke out.
“Gather the House,” Aeren said. “Regroup with Thaedoren.”
“What’s going on?” Eraeth asked.
Aeren shook his head. “I don’t know.”
As Eraeth gathered what was left of House Rhyssal’s Phalanx, Aeren moved toward Thaedoren’s pennants, wincing as pain flared in his side. Halfway there his House arrived, Eraeth leading all two hundred of them, a horse in tow. With help, Aeren made it into the saddle, someone cinching a makeshift bandage around his waist. His Phalanx behind him, he rode through the White Phalanx’s ranks to Thaedoren.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Thaedoren shot him a look, nodded in acknowledgment then turned his attention back to the Legion. “The Legion has withdrawn. It appears to be on the order of King Stephan.”
“How did the King get to the far side of the battle?” Lord Jydell asked as he trotted toward them.
Thaedoren frowned. “I… don’t know.”
“He had Colin with him,” Aeren said abruptly, as he suddenly understood.
The Tamaell Presumptive’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
They waited, the surviving lords joining them, each asking the same questions, no one coming up with any answers.
Then flags were waved at the edge of the Legion’s forces, asking for a parley.
Thaedoren straightened in his saddle, brow furrowed.
“He’ll want our surrender,” Peloroun said tightly.
Thaedoren glanced toward him, let his gaze wander over all the lords present. “Aeren and Jydell, you’re with me.”
Aeren caught Eraeth’s gaze, and his Protector fell in beside him as they moved out onto the flat, stepping over bodies. Jydell had brought his own Protector, and two of the White Phalanx accompanied Thaedoren. Across the field, King Stephan, Tanner Dain, and Colin matched their progress, the King surrounded by two Governors and a contingent of seven Legionnaires.
They met halfway between the two armies, each group halting when they were ten paces apart. The Governors, Tanner, and the Legionnaires glared at the Alvritshai, on edge, their hands close to their swords. Stephan regarded them with a cold eye, frowning, as if he didn’t know what to think of the Alvritshai lords, of Thaedoren. Colin appeared pale, unfocused. His face was pallid, his eyes bleary, and the bandage over his chest was black with blood, the Alvritshai shirt he wore matted to it.
The Tamaell Presumptive nudged his horse forward a step. “What is it you wished to say?”
Stephan stiffened, lifted his chin. “The fighting needs to end.”
Thaedoren nodded, face neutral. “You wish us to surrender.”
Stephan shook his head. “No. I want a truce. Between us. With the dwarren. A truce among all of us.”
His Governors and a few of the Legion instantly protested, their voices loud, hands gesturing, until one voice broke through the others.
“You can’t be serious!” the Governor exclaimed. “We have them on their knees. We can crush their resistance here, now! We can crush them -”
“No!” Stephan barked, cutting the Governor off with a look.
The Governor’s anger narrowed as he drew himself up in his saddle. “At least require their surrender. Take hostages to ensure their behavior.”
Stephan considered for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. They didn’t come here to fight this battle. We did. That’s the only reason we’ve managed to subdue them.”
Tanner Dain sidled closer and said in a low voice that could nevertheless be heard by everyone, “Remember what happened here thirty years ago. Remember your father. These pale skinned bastards don’t deserve any mercy.”
Stephan shifted and glanced at Colin, who was looking even worse now. “But I do remember, Tanner. Better than you might imagine. And yes, some of them deserve no mercy-” his voice hardened. “-and they will get none. But not all of them.”
Tanner clenched his jaw. “Then you believe their lies?”
“I didn’t,” Stephan said, an edge of warning creeping into his tone, “but I do now.”
Tanner’s gaze shot toward Colin in suspicion, but he listened to the unspoken warning and said nothing.
As soon as his commander backed off and the grumbling of the Governors had subsided, he turned back to Thaedoren. “There are conditions.”
Cautious, Thaedoren asked, “What conditions?”
“Lord Aeren, when he came to see me in Corsair to suggest an accord, claimed that not all the Lords of the Evant were involved in my father’s murder. I didn’t believe it then because of everything I’d been told since the battle, everything that I’d come to see as true. But I’ve been shown the truth, and I realize that he was correct. Only three lords were involved. One of them was killed almost immediately. And one did not actually raise a weapon against my father that day, he simply pulled the Tamaell-your father-to safety.” Stephan’s eyes darkened, his voice deepened. “But the other, this Lord Khalaek… I want him.”
Thaedoren’s shoulders squared. “He has already been sequestered for murdering the Tamaell-”
“If you want this treaty-if you want this peace- then you will give him to me.”
It was said softly, between clenched teeth, but the anger, the rage, came through clearly.
Aeren adjusted his position in the saddle, but didn’t dare look at the Tamaell Presumptive. There were too many emotions involved, too many political implications regarding Khalaek and the Evant, Thaedoren and Stephan, the Alvritshai and the Provinces.
“Very well,” Thaedoren said. “But Lord Khalaek must face the Evant first.”
Stephan shrugged. “As long as I get him alive.”
Thaedoren nodded. “I’ll make certain of that. What are your other conditions?”
“That the dwarren be included in the treaty, that Lord Aeren be there for the talks, that we meet on this field, in the open, just you, me, the Cochen, and one adviser each, along with him.” He motioned toward Colin, who didn’t react. The human’s head had dropped, hair falling over his face so that Aeren could no longer see his eyes.
Aeren shifted forward. “Speaking of Colin,” he began, but paused when both Thaedoren and Stephan turned their gazes on him. Both had frowned at the interruption, but they were too focused on each other, on the discussion. Neither had even looked at Colin. “Speaking of Colin,” he began again, “I’d ask that you allow my Protector to take him to our healers. He’s obviously wounded.”
Their attention shifted toward Colin sharply, even as he began to list in his saddle. Stephan swore and caught him before he could fall, holding him upright. “Of course,” he said. “Take him.”
Eraeth moved forward immediately, bringing his mount alongside Colin’s. With Stephan’s help, Eraeth pulled Colin’s body into the saddle in front of him and headed back toward the Alvritshai camp.
Stephan watched them for a moment, then turned back to Thaedoren. “We can discuss everything else once we’ve had a chance to recover. Tend to your wounded. I’ll send an emissary to the dwarren and arrange matters with them, as well as discuss them with my Governors.”
“As will I with the Evant.”
“Very well.”
The two leaders nodded at each other, then turned and headed back to their own armies.
“That was… unexpected,” Lord Jydell muttered.
“Yes,” Thaedoren said tightly, “but welcome. Assemble the Evant, and order everyone else to begin searching for the wounded on the field. And collecting the dead.”
“And what will the Evant be discussing?”
Thaedoren’s face tightened with anger. “Lord Khalaek.”
When Colin woke the first time, he never opened his eyes.
He could sense someone leaning over him. And then, as if through a dense fog, he heard someone say, “Will he survive?”
He recognized Stephan’s voice, could feel the King withdraw slightly.
“He should never have survived the knife to his chest,” Aeren answered. “I don’t understand how he had enough strength to take you to the battle thirty years ago. But yes, we think he will survive.”
A long silence. “Who is he?”
Someone snorted, and Colin smiled. Eraeth. He could imagine Aeren’s glare.
“He came from Portstown.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“That’s all I can say,” Aeren answered. “Other than to say that he is Rhyssal-aein, a friend.”
“He’s more,” Eraeth said gruffly. “More than Rhyssal-aein. He is a member of the House. He is Colin Harten, Colin Shaeveran. He is touched by Aielan and touched by shadow.”
A significant pause, and then Aeren said, “Indeed.”
Colin heard movement, people shifting. Stephan sighed. “I suppose we should start the talks without him then. I’d hoped he would have recovered by now.”
“The wound was deep,” Aeren answered carefully. “Deeper than perhaps we know.”
“Then let him rest,” Stephan said, his voice already retreating. Colin listened as Aeren and Eraeth followed. “We’ll begin at midday, on the field. Is everything prepared?”
“I believe so…”
And then the voices faded, and Colin faded with them.
When he woke the second time, he opened his eyes to find Moiran and Aeren talking quietly on one side. He listened to the soft murmur of their words, not trying to understand, simply staring up at the undulating canvas of the tent above. The room was lit with a soft lamp, shadows flickering on the walls.
He stirred, his stomach growling, and the conversation halted.
Moiran appeared first, frowning down at him, Aeren a moment later, both concerned.
“How do you feel?” Moiran asked. It took a moment for Colin to piece together the Alvritshai.
“Hungry,” Colin rasped, his voice sticking in his throat. He coughed, winced at the pain. He dug his chin into his chest, trying to see the bandage that bound him. He picked at it, Moiran gently slapping his hand away.
“Leave it,” she said, then glanced toward Aeren. “Watch him while I go find something for him to eat.”
As soon as Moiran left, Colin asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“Ten days.”
Colin sighed, raised his left arm to scrub at his face, but paused.
The black mark, what had begun as only a freckle on the inside of his wrist, had now spread to his entire arm, the darkness swirling and eddying beneath his skin like a living tattoo.
He stared at it a long moment, the same dread that had seized him in the forest deep in his stomach… and then he let his arm drop.
“Is that the price you paid?” Aeren asked. “Is that what it cost to take Stephan back to the first battle to witness his father’s death?”
Colin couldn’t look at Aeren as he answered. “Yes.”
He expected Aeren to protest, to say the cost was too high, that they would have found another way.
Instead, the lord said, “Then the Evant and all of the Alvritshai thank you.”
Colin turned, met Aeren’s gaze directly, and in his eyes he saw what Aeren could not say, saw the gratitude that could not be expressed in words.
Shifting uncomfortably, he asked, “What happened?” then began struggling up into a seated position. Aeren frowned but helped him, propping pillows up behind him. His chest ached-his entire body ached-but not to the extent it had immediately after the fight in the tent with Walter.
“Stephan has asked for an accord, a treaty among all three races. We’ve been discussing the terms for the last eight days, after seeing to our wounded and burning the dead, including Tamaell Fedorem. Thaedoren has met with the dwarren shamans and chiefs and made a formal apology for desecrating the Lands. He has pledged the Event and the Alvritshai to the preservation of the Lands, as they requested, which is the main reason the dwarren are talking at all. I was there. It was… an interesting ceremony. And I believe Thaedoren actually intends to enforce the pledge.” He sat back, having gotten Colin settled. “Stephan would have waited longer to start the talks-he wanted you to be there-but we convinced him that you needed time to recover.”
“Why would he want me there?”
“Perhaps because of what you did. But also, I think, because of what happened in the parley tent with Fedorem. He wanted you there in case the Wraith returned.” He held Colin’s gaze a long moment. “Could the Wraith return? Or is it dead?”
Colin thought about Walter, about the wound he’d inflicted, about the fact that Walter had drunk from the Well in the forest, and grimaced. “He’s not dead. He’s like me. He’ll heal.”
“And where is he now?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think he’d head back to the Well, back to the forest. The Faelehgre will know. I’ll find out from them as soon as I can. He was wounded as badly as I was.”
“Worse. Khalaek stabbed him as well in order to escape.”
Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He hadn’t seen what transpired between the two. “What’s happened to Khalaek?”
Aeren looked away, troubled and angry. He stood, began pacing. “The Evant has declared him a traitor. If it had been anyone but a lord of the Evant, anyone but him, he would have been executed immediately. But he is a lord, and as one of the conditions of the treaty, Stephan has required that we hand him over to the Provinces for justice. So the Evant has decided to exile Khalaek from the Evant, from all of Alvritshai lands, forever. He’ll be banished after the treaty has been completed and then immediately given over to Stephan.”
“When will that happen?”
“Tomorrow… or perhaps the day after, depending on when the final minor details of the treaty are agreed upon.” Aeren stopped pacing and faced Colin. “Will you be well enough to attend?”
“Yes,” Colin said. “Whether Moiran agrees with me or not.”
Aeren smiled, the expression vanishing the instant Moiran ducked beneath the tent flap with a tray of food held carefully before her.
As she rose from her stooped position, she froze and shot Aeren a glare. “You let him sit up?”
When Aeren said nothing, she sniffed and moved to Colin’s side. The smell of hot soup filled the tent as she settled down beside him and checked his bandage, and his stomach rumbled loudly. Satisfied he’d come to no harm, she spooned up some of the soup and brought it to his lips, murmuring, “I leave you alone for five minutes…”
Colin nearly moaned as the soup filled his mouth with flavor.
Aeren grinned. “I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, moving toward the door flap.
“I’ll be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Moiran snapped.
Colin sent Aeren a wordless plea for help, but the lord ducked out of the tent with a low chuckle.
The next night, as the sun set, the Lords of the Evant gathered with their guardsmen and a few of their aides in the center of the flat. To the north, east, and south, sounds of celebration could be heard, muted by distance. The treaty had been agreed upon and signed. Official borders had been established and terms worked out regarding trade, politics, and aid. It was still tentative, still a little too new, no side quite trusting the others.
But it was a beginning.
Aeren stood at the front of the Alvritshai contingent along with Thaedoren. The rest of the lords hung back, their guards surrounding Khalaek, his hands secured behind his back. The Lord of House Duvoraen had suffered at the hands of the White Phalanx. Bruises covered his face, his arms, his chest. Aeren expected there would be more bruising beneath his clothes. His lip had been split and was crusted now with dried blood, but he stood rigid, back straight, head high, an arrogant sneer touching those lips. He kept his gaze forward, not looking at any of the Lords of the Evant, not reacting, even when one of the guards spat on the ground at his feet.
On the horizon, the sun vanished, the orange of the sky darkening and fading, the light withdrawing. Darkness bled westward, stars slipping into existence. Scattered fires appeared throughout all three armies.
And a single fire wound its way onto the flat from the direction of the human forces.
“Here they come,” Thaedoren said.
The lords waiting behind fidgeted, and in the light of the lanterns they’d brought with them, Aeren saw fear flit across Khalaek’s face, there and then gone, the arrogance returning.
They waited, the night cooling around them. A breeze gusted past, bringing with it smoke and the smell of roasted meat. Aeren glanced at Eraeth, at Colin on his Protector’s far side, the human looking healthier than he had any right to be, then turned back.
King Stephan and his Legion had arrived.
They came out of the darkness and into the Alvritshai lights like shadows, halted on the far reaches of that light. Aeren saw one of the Governors, Tanner Dain, and a few Legionnaires… but that was all. No escort of guardsmen to lead Khalaek back to the human army, no tribunal. Just Stephan and what Aeren would consider a minimal escort.
Ice slid down into his gut, and he grimaced.
Stephan meant to take care of Khalaek here.
“Do you have him?” Stephan asked.
Thaedoren stepped forward. “We do. But first we need to formally banish him.”
Stephan nodded.
Turning, Thaedoren motioned to the White Phalanx, who shoved Khalaek out into the space before the Tamaell Presumptive… the Tamaell in truth now, Aeren realized. There, they forced him to his knees in the churned up earth so that Thaedoren looked down on him.
“Khalaek,” Thaedoren said, and for a moment he let his own pain and hatred of the lord seep into his voice, “the Evant has ruled that you are a traitor to the Alvritshai people, that you conspired to murder the Tamaell of the Evant, and that you have betrayed the trust and loyalty given to you as Lord of House Duvoraen. As such, your life is forfeit. Your House has fallen, and a new House will ascend in its stead. Your lands, your properties, and all that is yours, will be given to the rising lord.”
No one within the Alvritshai ranks stirred, not even Lord Peloroun.
“However,” Thaedoren said, drawing a dagger from its sheath at his waist as he spoke. Khalaek flinched back, the White Phalanx around him grabbing his shoulders, holding him in place. “You were a Lord of the Evant. Because of this, and because of the newly established treaty with the Provinces, the sentence of death is rescinded. Instead, you will be branded a traitor and exiled from Alvritshai lands forever. Any who harbor you, any who give you aid, will be deemed traitors to the Alvritshai as well and punished accordingly.”
With that, Thaedoren stepped forward, grasped Khalaek by the hair and thrust his head back, turning it so that his cheek was exposed. He struggled, the Phalanx bearing down on him, but he stilled as soon as the blade touched his skin.
Thaedoren brought the dagger down slowly, slicing deep, cutting from near the corner of his eye, down along the cheek, to the base of the jaw. Khalaek hissed as blood welled, lantern light dancing on his face, the blood appearing black. As it dripped onto Khalaek’s shirt, Thaedoren twisted the lord’s head in the other direction and cut again on the opposite side, the same mark, taking his time, savoring the pain he inflicted.
When he was done, he pushed Khalaek’s head back roughly and spat into the lord’s face. “From now on, you are Khalaek-khai. You are nothing. Less than nothing.”
Khalaek fought the White Phalanx as they held him in check, blood flying as he thrashed his head back and forth.
But Thaedoren ignored him. Turning to face Stephan, he said, “He’s all yours.”
Then he turned, motioned to his Phalanx, to the lords, and moved away from Khalaek. The White Phalanx thrust Khalaek to the ground, where he writhed in the dirt, trying to rise, to gain his feet, his arms still trussed behind him.
But Stephan and the humans moved in, taking Thaedoren’s place.
Before Khalaek could gain his knees, the Legionnaires grabbed him, jerked him to his feet, spun him so he stood facing Stephan. His breath came in ragged gasps, and dirt now smeared his face, mixing with the blood.
Stephan drew his own dagger. Without preamble, he growled, “This is for my father.”
He shoved the dagger into Khalaek’s stomach, beneath the rib cage, one hand reaching up almost gently to cup the back of Khalaek’s head and bend him over the blade. He held it there a long moment, Khalaek gasping. Blood drooled from Khalaek’s mouth in a sickening, wet stream.
Then Stephan’s hand shifted. His fingers tangled in Khalaek’s hair, pulled him upright, and with a vicious wrench he tore the dagger from Khalaek’s gut.
He let Khalaek fall. The Legionnaires had stepped back, so that now he faced Thaedoren and the Alvritshai over Khalaek’s body.
“Are the final terms of the treaty now satisfied?” Thaedoren asked, his voice expressionless.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And without another word, the two rulers turned and headed back toward their respective armies in the darkness, their escorts trailing behind them.
The shadow waited until darkness had reclaimed the flat… and then it waited a moment longer.
When night had settled again, the songs and dancing of the celebration thinning, it moved forward to the body left in the middle of the field. It gazed down at the crumpled shape a long moment, barely visible in the starlight, in the faint luminescence of the partial moon.
Then it crouched. Placing a hand on the body’s shoulder, it rolled Khalaek over onto his back.
The ex-lord moaned and coughed up a gout of blood. His guts lay partially exposed, blood bathing his entire front, drenching the earth beneath where he’d lain, but the figure ignored all the gore, moving so it could look into Khalaek’s glazed eyes.
There wasn’t much life left in those eyes, but there was enough.
The shadow smiled. “Ah, Khalaek-khai. If I didn’t have a use for you, I’d sit here and watch you die.”
Walter pulled a vial from his coat, held it up to the starlight a moment so he could peer through the clear liquid within then pulled the stopper.
Leaning close, he whispered, “Drink this,” then dribbled some of the liquid onto Khalaek’s lips.
And the scent of wet earth and dried leaves filled Khalaek’s senses.