Well of Sorrows (42 page)

Eraeth shifted uneasily, tried to lock gazes with Aeren, to warn him to be careful, not to reveal too much about the Alvritshai. But Aeren was focused completely on Garius.

“Yes, the ice. The region to the north of the Hauttaeren was once arable land, even though the growing season was short. The Alvritshai farmed there and to the south of the mountains. We worked the land, built cities there. The winters were always harsh, but we could retreat into the halls of the Hauttaeren for the worst months and return after the thaws.

“But in the last two hundred years, the winters have worsened. The growing season in the north has vanished completely, the ground now covered with snow and ice the entire year. It happened slowly, the ground free for six months, then four, then two. Now it is locked solid. We were forced to retreat to the Hauttaeren permanently, abandoning the cities to the north. But the halls couldn’t contain us all, and the forests to the south couldn’t produce enough to support all of us. So we headed south, onto the plains.”

“Onto our lands,” Garius’ son growled. His father shot him a black look. He spoke Alvritshai, but not as smoothly as his father, the words clipped and broken.

“Onto your lands, yes,” Aeren said, unruffled by the boy’s outburst. “We didn’t know that at the time, of course. You live underground. There is little evidence of your existence aboveground, especially here, in the northern reaches of the plains. We didn’t know. And by the time we found out, we were already desperate. We
needed
the land, needed those crops. If we couldn’t harvest them, we would starve. So when your Riders first appeared, we thought they’d come to steal from
us,
to take what was
ours,
and so we fought back.” Aeren’s voice had hardened. “No one stopped to ask whether we had encroached on your lands. No one stopped to talk. I’m not certain it would have mattered then if we had, since we didn’t speak a common language, and because the situation for us was so dire. But we know about each other now, know
of
each other, know a little of each other’s culture. It’s time to stop.” Aeren sucked in a breath and repeated in the dwarren tongue, leaning slightly forward, “It’s time to stop and
talk
.”

Garius didn’t move, although his eyes widened slightly as Aeren spoke the thick, guttural dwarren. Eraeth could barely follow it, even though Aeren had forced him to learn it, along with Andovan. Unlike the humans, who seemed more than willing to talk in any given situation, even when words were useless, the dwarren weren’t as open or forthcoming, so the Alvritshai’s grasp of the language was tenuous. But they knew some, and that fact clearly surprised the clan chief and his son.

Garius sighed unexpectedly, shoulders slumping, his arms dropping from their defiant position across his chest. He glanced toward his son, mouth pressed tight as he saw the fixed angry expression there, then bowed his head, eyes closed.

Eraeth swore silently to himself as the clan chief lifted his head, let his hand fall close to the hilt of his cattan.

“The Lands . . . the plains . . . are sacred to us. They are a gift of the gods, given to the dwarren to protect, to preserve. We believe the clans were created and left here to guard them and everything that they contain—the sky above, the grass, the earth below, the forests, and the waters that feed them all, the waters that give them life, that give
us
life. And we have guarded these Lands, protected them, for generation upon generation.”

“How?” Eraeth asked, his voice taut. He saw Aeren tense, but continued. “How have you protected the grassland, when all that the Alvritshai have seen since we came here are the clans warring with each other?”

Garius’ eyes flared with anger. “The clans do not always agree on how the gods intended the Lands to be protected, and so we war. We have seen the same conflicts among the humans and among the Alvritshai. But that is not the point.”

He turned back to Aeren, the anger seeping into his voice, darkening it. “When the Alvritshai came to the Lands, they did not seek out the People and ask for the use of the Lands. They did not honor the gods and their great gift.
You
did not honor the gods. Instead, you defiled the Lands, built houses and towns and cities upon its earth, plowed its fields and sowed it with grain, all without the gods’ blessing, without the permission of the dwarren left to preserve it.” His breath heaved with indignation, with suppressed fury, but with effort he managed to control himself. “That is why the dwarren have fought against you, why we continue to fight. Your presence here—on this grass, on this earth—is a desecration of the Lands.”

Eraeth drew breath to protest, his own anger rising—at the arrogance of the dwarren, at their self-importance—but Aeren laid a hand on his shoulder to quiet him.

“Does our situation mean nothing to you then? Thousands of Alvritshai would have perished in the winters that followed our abandonment of the northern reaches. Do your gods have no mercy? No patience for the ignorant?”

A troubled look passed over Garius’ angry face, but his son spat something in dwarren, spoken so fast that Eraeth could not catch it, although it was obviously derogatory.

“Hush, Shea, you do not know of what you speak. You are not yet a member of the Gathering, and you are not a shaman. Do not presume to know our will, or the gods.” The words were soft, but the reprimand behind them bit. Shea flinched and bowed his head in angry discontent.

Garius considered Aeren with an intent frown, the smoke from the braziers drifting in heavy tendrils between them. No one moved, and Eraeth felt sweat break out against his skin. The tent had grown hot.

Garius finally spoke.

“Ilacqua is merciful, especially to the ignorant . . . and the foolhardy.” This last was directed toward Shea, whose head dipped slightly lower. “I cannot say what he or any of the other gods would say regarding what you have revealed. I am not a shaman and would never presume to know the gods’ will. But I am a member of the Gathering, and we have noticed that winter comes earlier every year, that occasionally there is snow on the plains where there was never snow before.” He lifted his chin. “What would you have me say to the Gathering?”

Aeren’s hand fell away from Eraeth’s shoulder. “Tell them what I have said here, about why the Alvritshai are on the plains and why we have fought so hard to retain what we have taken. Tell them that we were ignorant of your ways. And tell them . . . tell them that if there is a chance for peace between us, the Alvritshai are willing to ask the dwarren for permission to use the Lands, that we will vow to protect them as the dwarren would.”

Garius stirred, his eyes going wide. Even Shea’s head rose. “The Alvritshai would be willing to do this?”

Aeren hesitated, then nodded. “If it will mean peace between us, then yes. I will convince the Tamaell—our chief—that it is necessary for the skirmishes to end.”

Eraeth turned to look at his lord. Aeren had said it as if it would be simple, as if he could simply walk into the halls of the Evant and ask.

Garius’ entire posture changed. The doubt that had tightened his shoulders and back, that lined his face, eased.

“If this is true, if your chief, this Tamaell, would vow to protect the Lands as the gods demand . . .” He glanced toward Shea, then back toward Aeren. “I cannot say what the Gathering will say, but know this, Lord Aeren of the Alvritshai. I wish my son to grow old, spawn many children, and die on these Lands without the threat of war, no matter that he desires only to prove himself on the battlefield so that his blood may feed the grasses.” A look of scandalized horror crossed Shea’s face, but his father ignored him completely, leaning forward through the haze of smoke. “I have lost many in these battles—friends and family alike, and sons. I’d guess that you have lost as many, if not more. This war is wicked, destroying the plains. The gods are not happy. The shamans know this; that is why the storms have grown worse, and the air itself shimmers and cracks. They are omens.”

The occumaen, Eraeth thought. He’s speaking of the occumaen. And the unnatural lightning.

Garuis sat back, considering Aeren, one hand stroking his beard, tangling in the beads braided there. It was the first relaxed gesture Eraeth had seen the chieftain use since they’d arrived.

He grunted, as if reaching a decision. “I will call a Gathering. I will speak to the other chieftains, to the People of the Lands. If they agree, I will bring them to this flat in one month. This I swear, in blood, before the gods’ eyes.” He pulled a thin knife, all of the Phalanx tensing. But it wasn’t a fighting knife. He placed the short flattened blade against the soft outer pad of his palm and made a small knick, enough to draw blood. With the thumb of the hand holding the knife, he smeared the blood across his palm, spat on it, and held it out to Aeren.

Eraeth saw Aeren still. He could sense the distaste in his lord, but Aeren reached forward and clasped Garius’ hand tightly.

Garius’ grip tightened for a moment, not allowing Aeren to withdraw, and he caught the lord’s eyes. “If your chief would have peace between us, he will be here.”

He released his grip, leaning back, his arms crossed over his chest again. “Now go.”

Eraeth rose with Aeren, the lord bowing toward the chief of the People of the Thousand Springs. A formal bow, one that would be given to another Lord of the Evant. Then they left, passing back through the entrance, around the curved arm of the tent and out into the night.

Darkness shrouded the entire camp, broken by the fires and the stars above. As he came out into the cool night air, Eraeth stumbled, a wave of dizziness sweeping over him, brought on by the heat of the tent and the dense smoke. He gasped, sucked in a cleansing breath, the cold shocking his lungs, heard the others doing the same.

The shaman stood to one side, watching them through narrowed eyes. But when the storm they had seen upon entering the tent flared to the east—closer now, enough that they could hear an answering rumble of thunder—he turned back to study it. The rest of the dwarren ignored them completely.

“That was . . . interesting,” Aeren said as they began to move through the circles of tents back to their own camp.

Eraeth didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. “I did not like his son, Shea.”

Aeren shrugged. “He is young. He does not trust us, and he has yet to learn how to be . . . diplomatic. You and he are much alike.”

Eraeth snorted. “I am not young.”

Aeren smiled. “No, you are not. And for that you are forgiven much.” They passed through the dwarren sentries and walked up the hillock in silence, turning near the top, where Eraeth gave the sentry on duty there a nod that all was well. The Phalanx guardsman relaxed.

Behind them, the dwarren camp lay among the black grass, the campfires burning in rounded glares of light, the tent where they had met with the chieftain glowing blue-green with the light of the braziers inside. The storm lit the sky to the east with flashes of blue and purple and set Eraeth’s skin tingling with its nearness.

“But we found what we came for,” Aeren said, and as Eraeth turned to look at him, his face was lit with the glow of purple lightning. Eraeth saw weariness there, and pain, along with satisfaction. “Now all we need to do is convince the Tamaell and the Evant.”

“You’re listening to them?” Shea barked as soon as the Alvritshai warriors left the tent. He jumped to his feet, paced the confines of the tent. “You trust them? Remember what was done to our People at the Cut!”

“I will take their words to the Gathering and the rest of the clan chiefs, yes,” Garius said, his voice coming out in a low growl. He watched his son pace, saw the pent up anger in each step, the frustration in his clenched hands. Garius nearly reached out to grab his son’s arm and force him to stop, but he crossed his arms over his chest instead.

He’d been young once himself.

The smoke from the braziers—representing the four gods of the Winds, with the fifth overhead representing Ilacqua, so that he could oversee all that transpired in the tent—hung thick and heavy, swirling around his son’s movements. Garius drew the cleansing yetope smoke deep into his lungs, held it, then exhaled slowly before continuing.

“I do not trust them, Shea. But a decision like this cannot be made by a single clan chief. It may affect all of the clans, so it must go to the Gathering.” He let his voice harden. “You know this. And you know why we must at least listen.”

“Because of the Cut,” Shea sneered.

Garius slammed one fist down on the table in the center of the tent, the bowl of untouched fruit jumping with a rattle. “Yes, because of the Cut! Over two thousand Riders were killed at the Cut, massacred by the Alvritshai and human forces, including your grandfather and three of your uncles—my father and brothers! I would have been there, would have
died
there, if I’d been old enough to wear my first band. None of the Riders who left the Lands to meet the Alvritshai and the humans survived, not clan chief nor first-banded. It decimated our ranks. Enough Riders remained to keep the human incursions at bay, but barely. If they had come in force within ten years of that day . . .”