Well of Sorrows Benjamin Tate

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THE SHIP ROLLED BENEATH HIM, and Colin clutched the wooden support, the press of the other refugees from Trent close around him. The sour-sick stench of vomit filled the dark hold, and he tried not to gag as he breathed through his mouth. Not ten paces away, he heard someone heaving up his minimal breakfast, and he blocked out the sound, closing his eyes and tucking his head down between his shoulders, cowering against the support. Someone nearby wept, and a baby cried—had cried non-stop for the last two days, sick with colic—its mother shushing it.

Overhead, on deck, the sound of running boots thudded into the hold as the ship lurched to port. Everyone cried out as they were thrown to the side.

Then a hand fell on Colin’s shoulder. He looked up, even though it was too dark to see any faces, and felt his mother’s breath against his neck as she spoke. “It’ll be all right, Colin. It’s just a storm. It’ll be over soon enough.”

She pulled him close, hugged his body tight to hers, nestling him under her arm. He didn’t let go of the wooden support, not completely, but he did bury his head against her chest. He could smell her sweat, the reek of the potatoes she’d been peeling for the cook for the captain’s dinner, the collected grime from unwashed clothes; he could smell her.

He wanted to stay here, in her arms, in her warmth.

The ship lurched again, and suddenly there was another hand, on his other arm.

“Colin,” a girl whispered, tugging at him, trying to gain his attention.

He pulled away, clutched tighter to his mother. She smiled down at him—he could feel it—tousled his hair—

And the girl tugged harder. “Colin! Colin, listen to me!”

Colin growled and turned his head to snarl, “What?”

It was Karen.

A cold, cold hand sank deep into his gut.

Karen shouldn’t be here. Karen shouldn’t be on this ship. He hadn’t even known her yet.

With a look of pity and patience, Karen said, “You can’t stay here, Colin.”

Confused but with a growing awareness that this couldn’t be happening, that Karen was dead, that his mother was dead, he whispered, “Why not?”

“You have to wake up. There are things you need to do.”

“But . . . but,” he stammered, aware now that he could taste blood in his mouth, warm and metallic. The visceral sensations of the ship were receding—the smell of vomit, the warmth of his mother’s body, the splinters biting into his hands.

Karen receded as well.

“What do I need to do?” he shouted into the burgeoning darkness, but the words were mumbled, the blood thick on his tongue.

He woke with a jolt and spat blood to one side of the bed he lay in, moaning as a tendril of the spit drooled down from his mouth. He wiped it away, his body aching, his head pounding, then lay back on the bed again.

He smelled leaves and earth and snow.

After a moment, he realized that the rolling sensation of the ship from the dream had not ended.

His eyes flew open and he turned onto his side—

And found three Alvritshai watching him from the opposite end of the narrow room. Aeren, Eraeth, and a guardsman Colin didn’t know. They stood just inside the narrow doorway. Colin could see a ship’s corridor outside, and with a quick glance he determined that the room they held him in contained five more bunks, two above him and three across an aisle. Lanterns burned, swinging at the motion of the ship, and he could hear the thud of numerous feet around him.

Eraeth said something in Alvritshai. Colin caught a few words he recognized, but not enough to translate it. He’d learned more dwarren than Alvritshai in his time in the forest.

“Speak Andovan, Protector,” Aeren said, and when Eraeth sneered, he added, “as a courtesy to our guest.”

Eraeth’s sneer vanished, his eyes going flat. “I told you he would wake soon.”

Aeren nodded. His eyes didn’t leave Colin’s face. “Yes. You were correct to summon me.”

Eraeth snorted. “I do not know why you wanted to bring him with us. He’s nothing more than a commoner, and he stinks.”

“I brought him because he stopped those who attacked us, those who killed one of the Phalanx and nearly killed Lord Barak. He stopped them even when it was obvious the Legion’s commander would have allowed them to escape. I brought him because he appeared sick, and the honor of Rhyssal House demanded it, but also because I felt that the Legion’s commander intended him harm.” Aeren stepped forward, a frown touching his lips. “And I brought him because he seems . . . familiar.”

Both Eraeth and the other guard stiffened when Aeren moved, their gazes falling on Colin as if they expected him to leap up with bared sword at any moment. Colin didn’t have a sword, didn’t even have his staff or satchel, although the satchel must be close if he could smell the Lifeblood. He hadn’t dared move since he’d caught sight of the three Alvritshai; he’d seen how fast they could move when there was need.

Now Aeren tilted his head slightly, his attention focusing completely on Colin while the two guardsmen shifted farther into the room. “Who are you?”

Colin cleared his mouth of blood-tainted saliva and swallowed. Then, in a hoarse voice, he said, “Colin. My name is Colin.”

Aeren’s eyes narrowed as he thought. Colin could see his mind racing, reaching back, then back farther, memory tugging at him.

And then his eyes widened. He swore, in Alvritshai, but the flavor of the words was clear.

Eraeth asked him something, and he responded in a hushed voice. Eraeth said something, realized that Colin couldn’t understand, and repeated himself in Andovan. “Impossible!”

Colin eased up onto his elbow, swung his legs off the edge of the bunk, aware of the Alvritshai’s swords. And aware that doubt had settled into Aeren’s gaze.

“I survived the attacks by the dwarren and the Shadows . . . the sukrael,” he said, “but only with the help of the Faelehgre.”

“The Faelehgre?”

“The lights in the forest. The ones that burn with a pure white fire. They’ve lived there with the Shadows for hundreds upon hundreds of years.”

Aeren’s eyes narrowed. “The antruel. The Guardians.” Both Eraeth and the other guardsman shifted nervously.

Colin thought about the Faelehgre, of the Well. “They call themselves the Faelehgre.”

Aeren nodded. But he hadn’t relaxed. Neither had Eraeth. “And how did these . . . Faelehgre help you?”

Colin shifted uncomfortably, dropped his head, the memories rising up so fast, so vividly. He breathed in deeply to steady himself, smelled the grass of the plains, the clean wetness of the storm that had passed. “Most of the wagons managed to escape the dwarren battle,” he began, his voice low. “We halted at the edge of the forest. The dwarren followed us, but they refused to come to within a hundred paces of the edge of the trees. We thought we were safe. But then the Shadows attacked. The sukrael.”

“We warned you,” Eraeth said, voice tight with contempt.

Colin looked up, anger rising in his chest. “Where else could we go?” he asked bitterly. “After the fight near the underground river, fleeing across the plains, the storm. . . .” He shook his head. “Even if we had followed you, we wouldn’t have been able to go far. We were exhausted. We would have slowed you down, even without the wagons.” He remembered how fast the Alvritshai warriors had moved back then, how fast they could run, nearly keeping up with the horses.

Eraeth grunted, still dismissive, still suspicious. But Aeren intervened before he could say anything more. “How did you escape the sukrael?”

“I . . . didn’t.”

Aeren’s brow creased in confusion.

Pain filled Colin’s chest, cold with the memory of the Shadow’s touch, but he forced himself to continue. “The sukrael attacked the wagons, and everything went to hell. Karen and I tried to find our parents, but everyone was running back and forth, and the Shadows were everywhere, falling on everyone, taking the horses, the Armory . . . nothing could stop them, not swords or axes. When we finally found Karen’s father, he’d been cornered near a wagon. I watched him fall, tried to hold Karen back. But she broke free.” His throat closed up but he forced himself to swallow. The emotions weren’t as raw here, away from the forest, away from the plains, but they were still strong enough to make breathing difficult.

He glanced up, met Aeren’s pained look, Eraeth’s narrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown. “I stayed with her, held her. I couldn’t move. Too drained—from the run, from the intensity of the dwarren battle, from the horror of what was happening around me. So I simply sat there and let the Shadows touch me.”

Eraeth hissed, the sound so unnatural that Colin started. Then the Protector muttered something under his breath, lips drawn back from his teeth as he reached for his sword, but he didn’t draw it. The effort not to draw it was clear in the tension on his face. “No one survives the touch of the sukrael,” he said sharply.

Colin felt his anger escalate. “I wouldn’t have. I wanted to die. But the Shadows didn’t take me right away, like the others. They’d been sated. So they tested me instead, touched me, searching for something. But then the Faeleghre came, and the Shadows fled. They saved me, led me to the Lifeblood, and—” He halted, about to say the Faelehgre had forced him to drink the waters; but that wasn’t true. “—they had me drink from the Well. That’s what saved me from the Shadows’ touch, but it changed me as well.” He hesitated, then shoved back the cuff of his robe, exposing the black mark on his skin.

Eraeth stilled, his body going rigid, but the other guardsman wasn’t as controlled. He stepped back, eyes wide with fear, and hissed, “Shaeveran,” warding himself.

Eraeth barked something in Alvritshai, the guardsman arguing with him a moment, until Aeren finally cut them both off with a gesture.

Colin covered the mark again. The other guardsman whispered something to Aeren, his glance shooting toward his lord. Aeren’s lips pursed.

“He says you’ve drunk from one of the sarenavriell, from a—” He paused, brow creasing as he translated the Alvritshai word, “—from a ‘Well of Sorrows.’ He says that you are cursed.”

“Well of Sorrows.” Colin barked bitter laughter. He thought of all those who’d died in the wagon train, of his parents, Arten, and Karen. “That’s appropriate.”

Eraeth’s suspicious gaze hadn’t wavered. “It could be a trick,” he said tightly. “He may not be the boy we met on the plains. He may have assumed the identity to get close to you.”

Aeren frowned. “Very few knew of the wagon train on the plains: you and the rest of the Phalanx present for that portion of my Trial, but no one else. Are you saying I cannot trust my own House guard?”

Eraeth’s lips peeled back from his lips in a silent snarl, but then he relaxed, the snarl vanishing. He shot Colin a black look. “Of course you can trust your guard.”

Aeren nodded, accepting the emotionless words without comment. He regarded Colin a long moment, the silence thick, his face unreadable, his gaze intense. Colin shifted nervously beneath that gaze, the rolling of the ship beginning to make him nauseous again. Then he straightened.

“I can prove that I’m the boy you met on the plains,” he said suddenly.

Before any of the Alvritshai could respond, he concentrated. His age fell away, the wrinkles of the fifty-year-old man smoothing, muscles tightening. He took himself all the way back to twelve, the age when he and Aeren had first met.

As soon as he started to change, the guardsman Colin didn’t know whispered something long and complicated. Colin could taste his fear. Eraeth’s blade slid from its sheath, and with a fluid grace he stepped in front of Aeren. The Alvritshai lord didn’t protest, his own eyes wide. Fear tightened the skin at the corners of his eyes, pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Stop,” he said, and waved his hand. When Colin only frowned, he repeated in a harsher tone, “Stop!”

Colin returned to the older version of himself. He could feel the tension in Aeren now, the lord fidgeting, as if he wanted to pace, which the confines of the cabin on the ship didn’t allow. He shot a hard gaze at Eraeth, then turned back to Colin.

“Do not allow anyone else to see you . . . change,” he said, his voice soft but dangerous. He waited until Colin had nodded agreement before continuing, relaxing only slightly. “Is this a consequence of the sarenavriell?”

“Yes. I can become any age I want, up to my true age.”

“And can you shift into other forms? Can you make yourself look like Eraeth, or myself?”

“No.”

“I see. And were there . . . any other consequences?”

“I have seizures, like the one you saw.” At the look of concern that flashed in Aeren’s eyes, Colin ran a hand across his mouth, as if there were blood still there, then grimaced. “There’s nothing you can do for me. If it happens again, let it run its course.” He didn’t explain that the seizures had gotten worse since he’d left the Well’s influence or that he’d only coughed up blood once before, on the plains.

Aeren regarded him a long moment, then nodded, as if he’d reached a decision. He said something low to Eraeth, the Protector’s expression darkening, but he stepped outside the room, returning with Colin’s staff and satchel. He handed them off to Aeren.

Kneeling down, Aeren set the staff aside and reached into the satchel. Colin felt his heart leap into his throat, thinking of the flask of Lifeblood, hoping that neither Aeren nor Eraeth had tasted it or even opened it, but Aeren didn’t remove the flask. He drew out the small vial of pink-tinged water instead.

From his crouch, turning the vial over in one hand, Aeren asked, “Do you know what this is?” He looked up, met Colin’s gaze. “It’s water from a ruanavriell. It has the power to heal. Not completely, but enough to halt blood loss, to seal a wound long enough for it to heal on its own.” He closed the vial in a fist. “Where did you get this?”

Colin swallowed, felt sweat break out on his forehead and upper lip. Aeren had given the question a weight that Colin didn’t understand. But he sensed that of all of the questions that Aeren and Eraeth had asked, the answer to this one was the most important.

“I don’t know where it came from,” he said. “But I found it on my father’s body.”

Aeren’s eyes narrowed as he considered. Then, abruptly, he stood, and Colin felt nearly all of the tension drain out of the room. Only Eraeth still remained wary.

“The vial is marked with a sigil,” Aeren said. “My own House sigil. Only someone from my House could have given this to you—or your father—and at present, I am the only remaining member of my House.” He grimaced, and Colin heard the pain and grief he tried to keep hidden. “I gave such a vial to your father, before the dwarren attack, to help him heal someone’s shoulder. I see no other way you could have possession of this . . . unless what you say is true.”

Eraeth drew breath as if to protest, but Aeren stiffened. Eraeth’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he glowered at Colin. Aeren stepped forward and handed Colin his staff and satchel.

“You may move about the ship with one of my guards as escort if you wish. We are headed toward Corsair, where I intend to meet with the King. I realize that you more than likely were not headed to Corsair when we took you on board. Once we arrive, I will make arrangements for you to be returned to Portstown, if that is your wish. Now that I know you are . . . well.”

“I had only arrived in Portstown the day of the attack in the thoroughfare,” Colin said. He shrugged. “I have nowhere to go.”

Aeren hesitated, and behind him, Colin saw Eraeth make a warning gesture, one his lord couldn’t see. “Then you should remain with my party, at least for the moment,” Aeren said. Eraeth swore silently, flashing Colin a vicious glare. The guard’s hand dropped, clenched slightly into a fist. Aeren’s gaze fell on Colin’s robes. “You should change into the shirt and breeches in your pack. Those will suffice until I can have suitable clothes prepared.”

When Colin nodded agreement, Aeren glanced down at the vial of pink-tinted water he still held in his hand. He started to hand the vial back to Colin, but stopped.

“There is one other thing, Colin,” he began hesitantly.

“What?”

Aeren looked up. “During the attack in Portstown, the lord accompanying me, Lord Barak, was mortally wounded by the attacker’s crossbow bolt. We have stabilized him, but our healer does not feel that he will survive the journey back to our own lands, and there is no one within the Provinces who would be willing to help heal . . . one of our kind.” He said it with the barest hint of bitterness, but even that faded as he continued. “The Alvritshai are not welcome along the coast, and the hatred is not entirely undeserved. The attack in Portstown was not unexpected.” His hand closed over the vial again, and he straightened. The guardsman behind him shifted nervously, his gaze falling to the rolling floor. Even Eraeth shifted uncomfortably.

“The waters of the ruanavriell are rare, collected only by members of the Evant during their Trials, as proof that they have, in fact, seen the Confluence and tasted its waters. It is not the Alvritshai custom to ask for gifts—”

And suddenly Colin understood. “Take it.” He smiled and pushed Aeren’s closed fist toward him, both guards stiffening until he withdrew his hand. “My father would have wanted you to have it back.”

Aeren frowned at Colin a long moment, then bowed, the gesture formal, reminding Colin with a lurch of his heart of their first meeting on the plains. “Thank you. I—and Lord Barak—are in your debt.”

Then he rose and turned to Eraeth, motioning toward the door. The other guardsman stepped back against the wall to let them pass, Eraeth murmuring a soft command in Alvritshai; Colin assumed he’d been assigned to watch over him.

At the entrance to the cabin, Aeren turned back. “We will be arriving in Corsair tomorrow.”

And then he left, leaving Colin alone with the attendant guardsman.

Colin opened the satchel and rummaged through the clothes, surprised they’d left him the knife he’d used to try to kill himself, but shuddering with relief when he found the cloth-wrapped bundle that contained the Lifeblood.

Colin visited the deck of the Alvritshai ship twice over the course of the next day, but he did not see Aeren or Eraeth. The guardsmen assigned to escort him changed sometime during the night, but they did not speak to him. While he was on deck the following morning, he heard a pair of them whispering about him in their own language. The only word he caught was “shaeveran,” and he frowned, wondering what it meant, recalling that that was what the previous guard had muttered when he exposed the black mark on his forearm.

He kept the mark hidden after that, the sleeve of his shirt fully extended.

He was in his cabin the following afternoon when one of the guardsmen appeared and motioned him to gather his things and come up on deck. The first thing he noticed as he stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight was that the ship’s crew had become more active, rushing from post to post, securing ropes and tying down sails. He saw why almost immediately.

The ship had entered a sea lane. At least ten other ships of varying sizes surrounded them, and land filled the horizon to port. They’d crossed the strait while Colin was below with the help of a stiff western wind, and now the prow of the ship was pointed toward the mouth of an inlet that broke through the rocky coastline. The ocean crashed against crags of rock to either side, sending up sheets of spray taller than the deck of the Alvritshai ship; and as they drew nearer, Colin could feel the currents beneath shuddering through the hull, the deck vibrating beneath his feet.

“Look,” Aeren said, pointing toward the top of the promontory to the north of the inlet, where a large castle stood above the pounding waves, unlike anything Colin had seen back in Andover or in the New World. A single tower of pale stone pierced upward from a building made of the same stone as the cliffs. While the main palace looked like the walls of a fortress, the tower was oddly delicate, a light shining steadily from its peak. “The palace. The lighthouse is called the Needle. It was designed by King Maarten, the current King’s father. Probably the Province’s greatest King so far.”

Then the ship passed into the inlet, rocky crags closing in on both sides, close enough that Colin took an involuntary step backward, sucking in a sharp breath. Before he could swear, the sides of the inlet fell away, and the riptides of the narrow opening smoothed out. The wind died down to gusts, the inlet protected by the surrounding land.

The Alvritshai captain steered the ship into a seething hubbub of ships and boats. They wound through the chaotic order of the ship lanes, skiffs and smaller boats appearing as they neared the docks. Those standing on the decks of the passing ships eyed the Alvritshai with fear and suspicion, and Colin realized that Aeren and the rest of the Alvritshai had tensed, their eyes forward, looking to where the ship would make port. Only the ship’s crew remained in motion, stepping quickly to follow snapped orders as the sails were furled and tied.

Colin was about to ask what was wrong when a new ship broke away from the docks, heading toward the Alvritshai’s courier. Even Colin could tell it wasn’t a trader. It was built for speed.

Aeren issued orders tersely, and the crew rushed to raise a set of flags.

“What is it?” Colin asked.

Aeren shook his head, his eyes on the approaching ship.

As soon as they were within hailing distance, someone on the ship bellowed, “You can’t dock in Corsair!”

Eraeth moved up to the railing, hand waving toward the flags that now snapped above. “We’ve come to speak with King Stephan. There are Lords of the Evant on board.”

“I don’t care if the fucking Tamaell is on board,” the man shouted over the water. “You can’t bring that ship into the docks! Drop anchor in the harbor and wait. If you attempt to leave, you will be boarded!”

Eraeth growled, but another ship had joined the first. Farther out, Colin spotted two more covering the mouth of the inlet, on patrol. They’d skimmed through the inlet so fast he hadn’t seen them, too intent on catching sight of the city beyond.

Aeren ordered, “Do it,” in Alvritshai—words Colin actually understood—and Eraeth grunted, then motioned toward the captain of the courier. The ship began to slow, the nervousness on deck doubling as the anchor dropped.

As soon as the ship had settled into place, a boat dropped from the edge of the patrol ship, and six of the Corsair’s crew climbed on board. They rowed toward the Alvritshai ship, members of the Alvritshai crew tossing down a rope ladder so they could climb aboard. All the men were part of the Legion, dressed in light armor, armed with swords. The Alvritshai Phalanx had withdrawn from the end of the rope ladder, leaving the crew to hold it steady as the humans climbed up.

The Legion clustered in a tight knot. Then the same man who’d ordered them to anchor stepped forward with a deep- seated frown. “Who’s in charge of this vessel?”

Colin expected Eraeth to step forward, as he had to answer the hail, but Aeren did.

“I am Aeren Goadri Rhyssal, Lord of House Rhyssal of the Alvritshai Evant.”

The Legionnaire hesitated a moment, eyes narrowing at Aeren, then gathered himself. “You dare to enter Corsair’s harbor and attempt to dock without waiting for an escort?”

Colin saw Eraeth tense, saw Aeren stiffen as well.

“I did not realize that an escort was required at Corsair. We’ve come from Portstown. The last I heard, Alvritshai ships flying the trade colors were welcome in the ports of the Provinces.”

“Not anymore,” the Legionnaire huffed, “by order of the King. ‘All foreign vessels entering the Port of Corsair must be accompanied by an escorting Provincial vessel until it is determined that such vessel is not a threat to the port or city, at which point it will be allowed to dock.’ ”

“When was this new policy put into effect?”

“Three days ago. Now, what is your business here in Corsair?”

“I am here to speak to the King.”

“About what?”

“Matters of state.”

“Ahuh.” The Legionnaire looked over Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest, his gaze pausing briefly on Colin. He frowned. “And who are you?”

Eraeth muttered something in furious indignation, and Aeren’s shoulders stiffened. “That,” he said, “is my adviser from Portstown.”

The man grunted. “We’ll need to search the vessel.”

Murmurs passed through the Phalanx and the crew, the ship’s captain stepping forward to Aeren’s side, but the lord held up his hand. The grumbling settled, although it did not dissipate.

“I do not believe that you have that right,” Aeren said, his voice tight, and the Legionnaire shifted awkwardly. “But very well. You should know that Barak Oriall Nuant, Lord of House Nuant, was wounded while in Portstown and is currently recovering in the captain’s cabin. As long as you do not disturb him unduly, the ship is yours.”

The Legionnaire nodded, then motioned to the rest of his men. Four of them broke away, descending into the hold, while the fifth remained on deck with the commander. The two groups—Alvritshai and human—eyed each other warily, until the four men returned.

They conferred quietly with their commander, then stepped back.

Straightening, the commander said, “Everything appears to be in order. You may dock, and a small group will be allowed up to the palace. Everyone else must remain on the ship. Follow us to your berth.”

“An Alvritshai representative should already be waiting to meet us at the docks, a member of my House.”

The commander nodded. “Very well. Welcome to Corsair.”

He turned and his group descended to the waiting boat. As they rowed back to their own ship, Aeren motioned for the captain to weigh anchor and prepare to dock.

Lines were tossed from the pier, and the two patrol ships broke away as they slid into their berth. Dockhands tied them down and a plank was dropped, Aeren moving down it to join another Alvritshai and a small escort of Phalanx in Aeren’s Rhyssal House colors waiting below. Eraeth nudged Colin to follow, Aeren’s chosen escort from the ship closing in around them. Two carriages were waiting at the far end of the pier, along with a group of the Legion.

Aeren and the Alvritshai Colin didn’t recognize were deep in conversation by the time they arrived. As soon as they paused, Eraeth broke in with a sharp question.

Aeren glanced around the harbor, watching the ships as they wove in and out among each other. From this distance, Colin could see a distinct difference between the Alvritshai ship and those from Corsair. It sat deeper in the water, its lines sleeker and more subtle, appearing elongated next to Corsair’s ships, which were rough and practical, built for a single purpose and nothing more. Aeren’s courier was more refined.

Colin’s attention shifted to the town. Larger than Portstown—larger even than Colin’s memories of Trent back in Andover—Corsair stretched out across both sides of the inlet. Warehouses, taverns, and shops crowded the docks on the northern side, a haphazard mass of roads, alleys, and buildings that sloped upward from the water to the ridge of land stretching across the horizon, leading out to the promontory where the palace and Needle stood. Like Portstown, the buildings were mostly wooden, although nearly all of the churches and what Colin assumed were mercantiles were stone. The architecture was again utilitarian, plain and simple, unlike the varied and more artistic structures he remembered from Trent. The distinction between the rebellious Provinces and their original homeland in Andover was clear. The streets were thronged with people, horses, carts, and wagons, the greatest activity on the docks, the raucous sounds and smells of the wharf reminding him of Trent. The city had spilled over to the southern part of the inlet as well, the buildings newer and only trailing halfway up the rocky shore.

Turning back, Colin heard Aeren say in Andovan, “Tell them, Dharel.”

Dharel sent Aeren a questioning look, looking askance at Colin. He began to speak in Alvritshai, but Aeren cut him off, saying, “Consider him Rhyssal-aein.”

Colin frowned as he felt a sudden shift in all of the Alvritshai present, Eraeth included. Before, on the ship and the dock, they’d treated him as if he were an extra set of baggage, including the guards. Now, he could feel their attention on him. The Phalanx had become aware of him, not as something to be stepped over or around but as a physical presence.

Dharel frowned but drew himself upright. “Ten days ago, a group of ships from Andover arrived, four ships in all, only three of them traders. The fourth carried representatives from the Andovan Court. Four days after they arrived, during a meeting with the King, Stephan had them all escorted out of the audience chambers by the Legion. They were confined to their rooms within the Needle under constant watch after that. Word reached the Andovan ships docked at the wharf the next day, and a riot broke out in the shipyards that night, begun by a confrontation between members of the Legion and the Andovan Armory in one of the taverns. Tensions escalated. The Armory warned all the Andovan citizens in the port to be ready to leave the city on short notice. Another riot broke out on the docks as everyone from across the Arduon Ocean tried to find passage on any available ship headed in that direction. The Armory blockaded the docks where the traders were berthed, and the Legion was called in to quell the riot. Somehow, in the confusion, fighting broke out between the Armory and Legion. Thirty people were killed, and each side is blaming the other.”

“I don’t see any ships flying Andovan colors in the harbor,” Eraeth said.

Dharel nodded grimly. “After the second riot, the King went to speak to the Andovan representatives, but he came out of their chambers in a rage and ordered the Legion to escort them down to their ships. He then gave anyone from Andover one day to find passage back to Andover or face arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Spying. Most of the Andovan ships at port—including the envoy from the Court—left at the next tide, holds packed with passengers. The next day, King Stephan had any remaining Andovan ships at the docks boarded, the crews arrested, and everything in their holds confiscated.” Dharel hesitated, then added, “All the captains of the ships were hung, their ships taken into the middle of the inlet and burned.”

A few of the Alvritshai nodded in respect. Colin remembered Eraeth’s demand that they kill the men he’d caught in the street and the obvious Alvritshai disdain for the human concept of a judge. He didn’t know what all of the factors at play here were, but he shuddered at the image of the gallows that appeared in his head, complete with the gut-wrenching stench of piss and shit.

“What did the Andovans say to the King?” Aeren asked. “What set off all of this . . . rage?”

Dharel grimaced. “They want the Provinces back. They want to reclaim the land they lost while they were fighting their Feud for the last sixty years. The representatives on the ships were here to demand that the King hand those lands back to the Court. Immediately.”

Aeren didn’t move. His expression remained flat and unreadable.

Eraeth frowned. “What does this mean?”

Aeren paced slowly away from them, then turned back, a troubled look flickering through his eyes, there and then gone. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means for what I intend, and I don’t know what it means for the Alvritshai. I have never been able to predict the human Kings, even after nearly sixty years of careful study.”

He turned to Colin. “What do you think it means? What do you think the King will do?”

Colin almost snorted, then thought about Portstown and Lean-to, about the tensions that existed even then between Andover and the group of conscripts, criminals, and guildsmen that would become the Provinces. “He’ll fight them to keep the coast. And the Legion will back him up. I think the entire coast will back him.”

Eraeth swore in Alvritshai under his breath. “It seems this coast is made for war,” he said to Aeren.

“The plains as well,” the lord answered.

Colin shifted. “What are you here for? Why did you come to Corsair?”

Eraeth stiffened, glaring at him, but Aeren moved back toward the group. “For the last sixty years, there has been nothing but conflict on the plains between the Alvritshai, the dwarren, and the Provinces. That conflict escalated until the confrontation at the Escarpment. It should have ended there. A pact had been made to end it. But a . . . mistake was made, a flawed decision, one that led to a misunderstanding, and the pact was broken. The conflict remained. It has simmered for the past thirty years. Thirty years of stifled trade, of petty bickering and skirmishes across all borders. Thousands have died because of it, including my family—my father, followed by my elder brother. I am the last of my House. Aureon, my brother, died at the battle at the Escarpment. I held his body in my arms. His blood stained my skin for days afterward.” Eraeth’s jaw clenched as his lord spoke, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword, and the surrounding guards stirred.

Aeren looked up into Colin’s eyes, and he saw the Alvritshai’s pain there.“I want this conflict to end. I want to finally be able to wash my brother’s blood clean from my hands.”

Silence stretched, until the tension in Aeren’s shoulders finally eased. “It has to stop. The plains have drunk too much blood. It needs to end.”

Colin almost asked how it could end, after going on for so long, but Aeren turned toward Dharel. “Take us to the palace.”

The door to the audience chamber in the palace at Corsair opened, and an officious man with a blunt nose entered. He stepped past the two Alvritshai guards, pointedly ignoring them, scanned the room as if looking for missing items, then finally let his gaze sweep across Eraeth, Dharel, and Colin. He gave a small frown when he saw Colin, but he turned to Aeren and said, “The King is willing to see you now.”

“Very well.”

The man spun and led them out of the room, down one of the Needle’s wide marble-floored corridors lined with huge urns and potted plants and tapestries. Servants and guardsmen passed them in the hall, and they left a wake of half-whispered comments and backward glances behind them. Colin tried to keep his attention fixed forward, but he caught glimpses through open doors into side rooms. Like the audience chamber they’d just left, they were spacious, the walls covered in polished wood, the ceilings vaulted, with niches for statues or artwork on nearly every wall. The audience chamber had held tables and chairs arranged beneath bookcases lined with books and assorted glass objects and small figurines. But as they moved, Colin saw other rooms with long dining tables or walls covered in artwork and huge chandeliers. The sheer size of the rooms overwhelmed him.

When they reached the center of the building, the officious man stopped before two large, paneled, wooden doors. Legionnaires stood stiffly outside, carrying pikes and halberds, in full armor.

The man didn’t consult anyone, didn’t even turn to see if Aeren and the others were following. He shoved the heavy door open and stepped into the inner room.

Colin had seen the official meeting rooms of the Court in Trent. Wide and spacious, they were usually open to the elements, paved in slabs of white marble, with numerous thin columns supporting a lattice-worked roof that could be covered with canvas in the event of rain. Sunlight would glance off the occasional small fountain or other central piece of artwork symbolizing the Family and its power. But the focus of the meeting rooms in Trent were the raised daises, usually with three or four seats, the largest reserved for the Family’s Dom, the remaining seats for the visiting Dom or their representatives.

The meeting hall in the Needle was nothing like that.

It was long and narrow, the floor made of flagstone, the walls of intricately paneled wood and skilled carvings. Banners hung on most of the walls, framed by the carvings, and when Colin recognized the diagonally cut field of red and yellow, a shield in the center, he realized the banners represented the Provinces. He counted six altogether, three on each side, and at the far end of the hall—

Colin’s step faltered. The King waited at the far end of the hall, standing behind a large desk. Behind him, a much larger banner took up almost the entire wall, a single field of yellow, a sheaf of wheat in black in the center. Aides and guardsmen stood to either side of him, but a pace back. As they drew nearer, Colin saw the dark look on the King’s face. He was leaning slightly forward, his fingers steepled on the desk. Dressed in shirt and breeches, he still radiated a sense of power, as if he wore armor instead. Broad shouldered, eyes gray like the flagstone, he glared at them as they approached.

Aeren came to a halt before the desk, and the officious man stepped to one side. Colin’s gaze flicked over the aides, noted the papers that lay in neat stacks to either side of the space before the King, the ink bottle, the feathers of numerous quills, and the chunks of sealing wax. There were no decorative weapons, no personal mementos of any kind.

Then his gaze fell on the guards and halted on the man standing to the King’s right in full dress armor. Obviously part of the Legion, high ranking. The man eyed all of them with suspicion, his gaze traveling over the members of the Phalanx first, judging them, weighing their potential danger.

Then his gaze fell on Colin. Creases appeared in his forehead as he realized that Colin was not Alvritshai and yet wore Alvritshai clothing. Aeren had ordered Dharel to find something appropriate as they rode to the palace. It had been too late for an audience with the King the night before, but Dharel had arrived with Colin’s new clothes—in the Rhyssal House colors—that morning, before they were summoned to the audience chamber.

Now Colin’s hands tightened reflexively under the commander’s scrutiny, trying to grip the staff he almost always carried. He’d been forced to leave it back in Aeren’s appointed rooms.

Leaning forward, the commander murmured something to his King. His eyes never left Colin’s, and the King’s never left Aeren. The King’s jaw clenched as he finished and stepped back.

“I have already dealt with one group of foreign visitors this past week,” King Stephan said, the menace in his low, cold voice unmistakable. “I had not expected to deal with another. What is it that you want, Lord Aeren Goadri Rhyssal? What is it that the Alvritshai want?”

Aeren tensed . . . and then visibly forced himself to relax. “I come as an emissary. I come as a seeker of peace.”

Stephan barked laughter, pushing himself away from the desk so he could pace behind it. “As you came to my father so many years ago?” he spat. “Is that your idea of peace? To cozen us into a treaty, to dazzle us with your offers of trade and wealth and good fortune so that you can betray us on the battlefield, so that you can murder our King?” Stephan shouted the last, his voice ringing in the enclosed hall, loud enough that some of his aides winced and cringed, looking down at the floor.

Aeren didn’t react. When the echoes faded, he said, “No.”

Stephan snorted, still pacing back and forth, his arms crossed over his chest. He no longer looked at Aeren but glared down at the floor.

Aeren drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I come now as a representative of the Alvritshai, to plead for the Alvritshai . . . but not at the Alvritshai’s behest. The Evant is not aware of my true purpose here on the coast. They believe I am here to forge trade agreements for my own House, attempts that they scorn as a waste of time, doomed to failure.”

Stephan halted. “And the Tamaell Fedorem?”

Aeren shook his head. “He is not aware of my true purpose either.”

Stephan shot Aeren a disconcertingly intense glare, but Aeren did not flinch. “You seem sincere. But you seemed sincere before, when you were dealing with my father.”

“I was sincere then. I am sincere now.”

“And yet you bring spies!” Stephan spat, hand jerking toward Colin.

Aeren frowned. “Colin is not a spy. He aided Lord Barak and myself in Portstown and was wounded in the process. The honor of my House demanded that I care for him. He has since agreed to remain with my party.”

The commander’s eyes darkened, his mouth turning down in a frown, but Aeren had already shifted his attention back to Stephan.

“If what you say regarding the Evant is true, then your presence here is meaningless. The Evant and Tamaell Fedorem,” Stephan’s face twisted into a sneer, “will not recognize any agreement we reach here. You have no official authority.”

“I have no official authority, but that does not mean I have no power,” Aeren said. And Colin heard a subtle change in the Alvritshai’s voice, a smooth modulation that deepened it, made it throb. Aeren took a small step closer to the King’s desk, one hand reaching out to touch the finely crafted, polished oak. “I am a member of the Evant, King Stephan. My House has been a member for more than four generations, and we Alvritshai live a long time. I did not come here to draft a peace treaty. I did not come to discuss terms and make concessions and seek compromises. I came because it is my opinion that neither one of us—the Alvritshai nor the Provinces—can afford to continue waging this petty war. Too many resources are being wasted. Too many lives are being lost. It is my hope that, like your father, you will agree with me. If that is the case,” Aeren said, cutting off the King’s response without raising his voice, doing the opposite in fact, speaking softer, slower, “if that is the case, then I will return to the Evant, to Tamaell Fedorem, and I will walk every path before me, offer everything I have to Aielan’s Light, to convince the Tamaell and the other Houses to come to you with a formal offer of peace and I will force them to honor it.”

Aeren’s voice shook, fury buried deep beneath the words themselves. A fury aimed at the Evant and the Houses, at Tamaell Fedorem. The room fell silent beneath the force of that fury, beneath the raw emotion that it exposed. Colin felt it like a hard knot in his chest; he realized he did not dare breathe for fear of breaking the silence.

In that silence, he noticed that Eraeth had turned to his lord, a troubled frown on his face.

Then Stephan chuckled, the sound killing the silence with a shudder. Colin felt the hard knot in his chest give and exhaled with relief, the sound harsh.

“I see now why my father fell for your Alvritshai tricks,” Stephan said, his voice bitter. “Do all of the Lords of the Evant have such powers of persuasion?” He paused for a moment, then waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I am not my father. I will not be swayed by the smooth words of liars. And I will not be lured onto a field of battle so that I can be murdered by your hand.”

No one spoke for a long moment until Aeren stirred.

“Not all of the Lords of the Evant on the field of battle that day at the Escarpment knew of the betrayal the others intended,” he said.

It took a moment for Aeren’s words to register, but when they did, Stephan’s face blackened with fury, as if actually naming the battle had brought all of the emotions from that fateful day that they had both been skirting to the forefront.

“Get out,” he spat, shoving away from the desk, barely in control of himself, his hands shaking, his face livid. “Get out of Corsair, now, before I have you escorted out on the point of a sword.”

The Legion commander had already stalked forward before Stephan had finished, the other guards in the room on his heels. Aeren wasn’t inclined to linger, turning to where his own guardsmen had tensed to give a small shake of his head. They were herded to the door, the officious man closing it behind them with a murderous look. Just before the door closed, Colin saw the King standing with his back to the desk, staring up at the yellow and black banner on the wall behind him.

“Move!” the commander ordered harshly. He motioned them down the corridor, back toward their rooms in the eastern wing of the castle. His guards flanked them, servants and aides already in the hall pressing themselves up against the wall or dodging into open doorways to get out of their way, even though Aeren moved at a casual pace.

As soon as they reached the door to their assigned chambers, the Legion commander said, “You have twenty minutes to pack. We’ll escort you to the port after that.”

Aeren turned. “That won’t be necessary. Only Lord Barak and his retinue will be using the courier to depart. I’ve made arrangements to travel back north by land.”

The Legionnaire’s brow creased with suspicion. “Then we’ll escort you to the edge of the city. Twenty minutes.”

Aeren nodded. “Very well. We’ll be ready in ten.”

He swung the door closed in the commander’s face.

He immediately barked orders in Alvritshai, and Dharel and the guards scattered, pulling clothes and supplies—papers, ink bottles, various odds and ends—and putting them into trunks and cases, hurried but not rushed.

Eraeth said something terse, and Aeren gave him a nasty look. “No, it did not go as I expected.”

“How did you expect it to go?” Colin asked. When Aeren gave him the same look, he added, “I heard about what happened at the Escarpment while I was in Portstown. At least, the Province version of what happened.”

“I know what the humans believe happened. I didn’t expect Stephan to simply agree out of hand.”

Colin frowned. “What did happen at the Escarpment?”

Aeren sighed, shook his head, and moved to the table in the corner he’d been using as a desk, beginning to sort and stack papers, placing them in a leather satchel. “I don’t know. I wasn’t at the forefront of the battle at the time of the betrayal. I was . . . elsewhere.” He paused and stared down at his hands a long moment, then shuddered and looked up. “From what I’ve gathered through the Evant, there was a betrayal at the Escarpment, one that has set the Alvritshai and the Provinces against each other for decades. I’d hoped that enough time had passed for the grief over his father’s death to have abated. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

“It didn’t help that you came immediately after the Andovans arrived and made their own demands,” Eraeth said.

The door to their chambers opened. The Legion commander stepped into the room. A small detachment of Legion stood behind him in the hall, at least three times their original escort from the King’s chambers.

Aeren ignored both him and the Legion guardsman. “Dharel, send someone down to the courier, along with whatever supplies we won’t need, and tell them to take Lord Barak to Caercaern. We’ll meet up with them there.”

Dharel nodded, motioning to the rest of the Alvritshai Phalanx. The guardsmen began toting the small trunks and cases out into the hall under the Legionnaires’ careful watch. One of them handed Colin his staff and satchel.

Aeren turned his attention on Colin. “Will you come with us, Rhyssal-aein?”

Colin hesitated, catching Eraeth’s eye. But while the Alvritshai Protector still scowled, it wasn’t as heartfelt as it had been before on the ship and the docks.

“Of course,” he said.

Aeren’s shoulders sagged in relief before he turned toward the Legion commander, his voice darkening. “Then it’s time to leave Corsair behind.”

Colin looked back as Aeren’s entourage—all on horseback, the White Phalanx riding to the front, the sides, and slightly behind—clopped down the flagstone-paved eastern road out of Corsair. The waters of the inlet glittered with the late evening sunlight, a turgid deep blue, cut by the activity of the boats and ships from both sides of the city. Birds wheeled and shrieked in the air over the water, gulls and terns and cormorants. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, settling in a thin layer at a uniform height. On the promontory, the Needle pierced the pale clouds that scudded across the sky, just beginning to show the pink-orange accents of the setting sun.

But it wasn’t the city or the palace that caught Colin’s attention. It was the Legion commander and the rest of the Legion he’d gathered, standing at the edge of the city, watching them depart. As he watched, the Legionnaire barked commands to those around him and cast one last baleful glance back, his eyes meeting Colin’s. A shock ran through Colin, tingling in his fingers, causing him to catch his breath—

And then the Legion commander cantered back into the city, lost among the buildings within the space of a heartbeat.

Most of the Legion remained behind.

Ahead, one of the Alvritshai removed a white banner from a satchel and unfolded it so that the black bundle of wheat could be seen, raising it on a standard whose base rested in a cup on the saddle. It declared that they were traveling under the King’s protection, and in theory it would keep the Legion and other Province citizens from attacking them on sight.

“He’ll send scouts to follow us,” Eraeth said, bringing his mount up close to Colin’s. His tone carried a sneer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he followed us himself.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He hadn’t ridden since the wagon train, over sixty years before; he could already feel aches in muscles he’d long forgotten. Frowning more at the saddle than at Eraeth, Colin said, “Wouldn’t you?”

Eraeth looked toward him, straightening as if affronted. “Of course.”

Colin expected Eraeth to retreat with a backward scowl. Instead, he glanced back toward Corsair, toward the Needle, then cast a troubled frown toward Aeren.

The lord of the Rhyssal House rode near the front, his back stiff, head held high, looking straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken to Eraeth or any of his own Phalanx since the palace Colin suddenly realized.

Colin looked at Eraeth out of the corner of his eye, saw the wrinkles of concern near his eyes, the tightening of the skin in the Alvritshai’s pale face.

“What does Rhyssal-aein mean?” he asked suddenly.

Eraeth broke off the scrutiny of his lord. He hesitated, then said shortly, “Friend of Rhyssal.”

“What does that mean?”

Eraeth’s mouth twisted with derision, but then he seemed to reconsider, focusing on Colin as he settled back into his saddle. His tone was clipped, but serious. “To the Alvritshai, it means that you are under the protection of the Rhyssal House, that those of the House are to protect you from harm, that Aeren has taken responsibility for you and has extended that responsibility to everyone in the House.” He paused, then added, “It also means that you are a representative of the Rhyssal House. Everything that you do, everything that you say, every gesture and emotion, will reflect on the House.”

Colin thought back to the wharf, when they’d arrived in Corsair. “That’s why the guards changed their stance on the docks then, when we first arrived?”

“Yes.” Eraeth glared at Aeren’s back. “The Phalanx is bound to protect you now.” And under his breath, “At least until he comes to his senses.”

Colin ignored him even though he knew it had been meant to be heard. Instead, he glanced around at the surrounding land. Fields lined the roadway to either side, interspersed with farm-houses, barns, storage sheds for grain, and the earthen mounds of potato cellars. The ground appeared rocky, which accounted for the paved road, now made out of carefully fitted granite rather than the flagstone used near the city. The rough, low walls separating the fields were made of the same stone, as were the buildings. Everywhere he looked, workers halted their harvesting and watched the Alvritshai group pass, dogs barking in wild abandon. A pack of children followed them for a long stretch, until one of the mothers called them back with a few harsh words, taking her own son by the ear when he got close enough. Colin smiled.

“And what does shaeveran mean?” he asked. “I’ve heard the Phalanx calling me that since we were on the courier ship.”

Eraeth regarded him a long moment. His face was set, probably the first serious look the Protector had given him that wasn’t twisted with a slight scowl or sneer.

Then he turned away and said, “It means shadow. You’ve been touched by the sukrael, marked by them. They call you Shadow because of it.”

Colin’s gaze dropped to his arm, to where the black mark lay hidden beneath the sleeve of his silk shirt, and his stomach clenched. A tremor passed through his arms, and for a brief moment, the scent of earth, leaves, and snow nearly overpowered him. He could feel the vial of Lifeblood in the satchel strapped to his horse’s side, but he resisted reaching for it.

The effort sent a shudder through his body. He’d thought it would get easier the farther away from the Well he traveled, but it hadn’t. Osserin had been right: The presence of the Lifeblood made it worse. Yet he couldn’t force himself to pour the Lifeblood out.

Up ahead, Aeren had slowed, the Phalanx at point drawing to a halt. Colin glanced around, saw that the farmland had given way to low hills dotted with patches of trees and grass. The road had become a hard-packed gravel track with low walls on either side, striking out hard toward the north and the city of Rendell in the next Province. But it looked as though Aeren intended to cut away to the east.

“Where are we going?” Colin asked.

Eraeth grunted and shot him a dark look, back to his usual disapproving glare, then nudged his horse forward to speak to Aeren.

Colin sighed.

An hour later, the group angled sharply east, heading deep into the plains.

“Should we continue following them?”

On horseback, on a tree- lined ridge distant enough that he doubted the Alvritshai would notice him, Legion Commander Tanner Dain lowered the spyglass he had held to his eye with an angry frown. He’d led the group of scouts sent to keep an eye on the Alvritshai lord and his party as they left the Provinces, and his initial rage at their audacity—asking for peace after murdering King Maarten at the Escarpment and bringing an obvious spy before the King—had lessened, tinged heavily with grudging respect. Mostly because the Alvritshai had done exactly as they said they would: headed north and east, to the plains. They hadn’t stopped to speak with anyone, and as far as his scouts had been able to find out, there wasn’t an army of Alvritshai waiting to meet up with them anywhere close by. All the intelligence he’d managed to gather had indicated that this Lord Aeren and his group on the courier ship had come to the Provinces alone, for exactly the purposes they’d stated—the prospect of trade with the Governors.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“No,” he finally said, then sighed. “No, leave them. They’ve left the Provinces, as they said they would.”

A small part of his mind began to wonder. Could Lord Aeren’s offer of potential peace be sincere?

Tanner’s brow creased in annoyance, and he shoved the nagging thought aside.

“What should we do then?”

Tanner dragged his eyes away from the receding figures of the Alvritshai and the lone human in their midst—nothing more than dark shapes on the gold of the grass now—and faced his captain, pulling his mount around in the process. The horse snorted and shook its head, stamping the ground between the trees once, as if impatient to get moving. Tanner suddenly felt the same impatience itching between his shoulders.

“We head back to Corsair to report to the King. We have more important issues to deal with than the Alvritshai.”

“Like what?” his captain asked, casting a heated glance in the direction of the Alvritshai party. For the first time, Tanner noted the gray streaks in the captain’s hair, registered the man’s age. He’d likely been at the Escarpment. A young man then, perhaps barely fifteen. He might have experienced the Alvritshai betrayal firsthand, might have lost friends to the battle fought afterward, as they tried to retreat.

“Like the Andovans,” Tanner said sharply, his tone catching the man’s attention. “They’re a more imminent threat than the Alvritshai at the moment.”

And with that, he shoved the Alvritshai from his mind and kicked his horse toward Corsair, his thoughts turning west, toward the Andovans and the protection of the coast.

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